The Trilogy of Two

by Juman Malouf

  “The Changelings are from the Forlorn Forest; the Albans are from the Golden Underground; the Tiffins are from the Land Where the Plants Reign; the Swifters are from the Lost Desert; the Foretellers are from the Vanishing Islands; the Bird Warblers are from the Crooked Peaks; the Pearl Catchers are from the Shifting Lakes.”

  “It’s my turn to wear the locket, by the way,” Charlotte said to Sonja, sticking out her hand.

  Sonja unfastened the thin gold chain from around her neck and dropped it reluctantly into Charlotte’s palm. It was warm from being worn all night. Charlotte believed the locket gave her good luck—and hoped that one day their real mother and father would know them by the little heart-shaped pendant dangling from her neck.

  There was a knock at the door. Tatty put a pillow over her head and groaned.

  “I’ll get it!” Charlotte called out brightly. She jumped up and opened the door.

  It was the Miniature Woman. She was out of breath. “You’d better hide. There’s a team of Enforcers looking for you. Pershing’s with them right now. Some Outskirters complained about your act last night.”

  Charlotte’s face fell. She peered out the window between the hanging dish towels. Pershing stood at the entrance of the cemetery with three Enforcers. He was shuffling through a stack of papers, pretending to search for his circus license.

  Tatty leapt out of bed and got the girls dressed in a flash. Sonja threw a weathered tin pennywhistle on a string around her neck. Charlotte snatched up her accordion and strapped it onto her back, then grabbed a handful of marionettes.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll hide the rest!” said Tatty. She pulled the twins to a bookcase at the rear of the caravan and fumbled along the side until she found a latch. The bookcase swung open. The girls had always known there was a door behind it, but they had never had to use it. “Go to the family tombs and stay there until I signal you.” Tatty shoved Monkey into Charlotte’s hands as she hustled them out. “Take him. You never know what they’ll do.”

  The girls jumped out of the caravan and ran to the end of the cemetery, hopping over sunken gravestones. Charlotte looked back over her shoulder and prayed Tatty would be all right. The Enforcers hated Outskirters—especially travelers like them. They had orders to keep the Outskirts quiet, and they obeyed them with great brutality.

  The twins reached what looked like a cluster of little houses, the family tombs of the old village. Sonja kicked open a door under the words carved in Latin: REQUIESCAT IN PACE. A blast of stale air whooshed out with a swarm of dizzy gnats. Charlotte pulled the door shut behind them, and they huddled in a corner on the dusty stone floor. Monkey, still asleep, curled into a ball on Sonja’s lap.

  Charlotte looked around. The walls were inscribed with names of the dead: Augustus von Stralen, Magbeth von Stralen, Brigadier von Stralen. Spiderwebs hung like hair from sculpted busts. Light trickled through a dirty stained-glass window and dappled the girls in gloomy color. It was dead quiet except for the sound of Monkey’s breathing.

  Charlotte shuddered. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “Me, too,” whispered Sonja.

  They waited ten minutes in silence.

  “I can’t stand the suspense,” said Charlotte, jumping to her feet. She climbed up onto a little altar and peeked out through the stained-glass window. In the distance, she saw the clowns: Balthazar clanging a pair of cymbals while being chased by an Enforcer, Vincent throwing empty food cans from the roof of their caravan, Toulouse making faces from inside as two Enforcers kicked at the locked door.

  Charlotte sighed. “They’re still there.” She sat cross-legged on the floor, feeling guilty. It was their fault the Enforcers had come. Now everyone was going to hate them even more. “I can’t sit here doing nothing. It’ll drive me crazy.” She looped the straps of her accordion over her shoulders and pumped the bellows very gently. Her fingers wandered the keys. “If we play softly, they won’t hear us.”

  Sonja hesitated, then blew gingerly into her pennywhistle. Her cheeks puffed in and out. A squeaky, pretty little song piped out of the crooked metal instrument.

  They played together as quietly as they possibly could.

  “Anything happening?” Charlotte asked. “Any magic?”

  Sonja looked around. “Nothing so far.”

  After a few songs, Charlotte relaxed. Maybe Uncle Tell was wrong. Maybe they were back to normal. That is all she wanted to be: normal.

  “Don’t get too excited,” said Sonja. She dropped the pennywhistle from her mouth. “It might be a fluke.” She picked up one of the marionettes. A wooden stag dangled from six strings. She tilted the control up and down and left to right. The animal’s hooves clip-clopped across the marble floor. Its head cocked to one side.

  Charlotte started to sing in a whisper as she played:

  Hear me, hear me!

  From a world of make-believe.

  Hear me, hear me!

  I sing of seven lands hidd’n from eyes to see.

  Within an ancient forest,

  Stalks a Changeling among the trees.

  First a man, then a beast, either shape he’d like to be.

  With two lives to be liv’d he growls, “You’ll never conquer me!”

  Sonja picked up another marionette: a man wearing a fur cape and a necklace of antlers. She swung his pink plastic arms and bent his metal knees. Monkey, finally waking, stumbled to his feet and danced alongside the two marionettes.

  Charlotte laughed and continued to sing:

  Underwater from lake to lake

  A Pearl Catcher swims,

  Her long hair flowing, paddling her limbs—

  “Hold it,” Sonja interrupted. She looked at the small pile of marionettes. “We didn’t bring her. Do the Swifters instead.” She held up three small puppets, fierce women with wild red hair and lightning bolts in their hands. Monkey covered his face. Charlotte went on darkly:

  Across a sandy desert,

  Float the Swifters, one, two, three.

  Fiery-eyed, these spirits rise in an ancient breeze,

  Bringing thunder, rain, and lightning,

  Not caring whom they please.

  Something hit the window.

  The girls looked up, startled. Charlotte stopped playing, Sonja dropped the puppets, and Monkey hid behind the girls.

  They sat perfectly still, dead silent, hearts racing.

  The tomb door creaked open.

  Three boys stood in the doorway, grinning.

  “Yous ducklin’s gots us in trouble.”

  It was the Scrummagers from the night before.

  Sonja grimaced. “How were we supposed to know you’d be there?”

  “Somes of us gots taken by coppers,” lisped the boy with the rat on his shoulder. His clothes were full of holes. They could see more skin than cloth.

  “We’re really sorry about that,” apologized Charlotte, “but like my sister said—”

  “Theys hurts ’em, yous know. Beats the daylights out of ’em.” The boy swung a thin club over his shoulder. A crooked nail stuck out from the end of it. “We’s thinkin’ ofs doin’ the sames to yous, circus freaks.”

  A whistle blew. A booming voice exploded:

  “Hold it right there, Scrummagers!”

  And in a snap, the boys were gone.

  The twins held their breath, waiting for the Enforcer’s footsteps.

  None came.

  Instead, they heard a soft voice call “Hello?”

  Charlotte peered around the door. A boy about their age with curly brown hair sat on a gravestone. A violin lay on his lap. His clothes were worn but tidy. He smiled.

  Charlotte stepped outside. She had never seen a boy with such kind, dancing eyes. She noticed a pin on his lapel: a rusty, old musical note.

  “You scared us to death,” growled
Sonja. “We thought you were an Enforcer.”

  “Sorry. It’s the only way to get rid of Scrummagers.” He looked from sister to sister, his eyes widening. “I’ve never met identical twins before.”

  Monkey leapt out of the tomb and jumped onto Charlotte’s shoulder.

  “Or a monkey for that matter.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jack Cross.”

  Charlotte stepped forward and shook his hand eagerly. “I’m Charlotte. This is Sonja. That’s Monkey. I was just saying to myself I wanted to meet some kids our own age.”

  “I live in the Train Graveyard. Number seven seventeen. With my mother and brothers.” Charlotte watched as Jack Cross nestled the violin under his chin and began to play. The strings hummed under his sliding bow. After a moment, he put down his instrument and smiled. “I’m a musician. I practice out here sometimes.”

  Charlotte’s face flushed a little. It was a difficult tune. The boy was showing off.

  “We’re musicians, ourselves!” Charlotte said quickly. She could show off, too. She played a few bars from a tricky polka. Her fingers danced like crickets.

  Jack Cross raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Not half bad!” He looked to Sonja. “What about you?”

  “We’re twins, aren’t we?” Sonja reluctantly blew the first few verses of a medieval hymn.

  The boy nodded, impressed. “You live here?”

  “Sort of,” Charlotte said, her voice faltering.

  “What she’s embarrassed to say,” interrupted Sonja, tucking away her pennywhistle, “is that we’re members of a circus.”

  Jack Cross’ eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to join a circus. Travel the world. Meet people.”

  Charlotte beamed. The boy did not care that they were circus folk. He seemed to like them even more for it.

  “It’s not that great, traveling so much,” said Sonja. “Every Outskirt looks the same.”

  “I imagine that’s true—but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life around here. I want to make something of myself.”

  “Me, too!” Charlotte blurted. “I want to play in a big auditorium in one of the cities.”

  Sonja scowled. “You said never in your life do you ever want to—”

  Charlotte pinched Sonja hard in the arm before she could finish. Why did she always have to interfere? It was not the first time.

  “Here’s a tip.” The boy leaned in. “There’s an audition today. In the Train Graveyard. For scholarships to the Schools for the Gifted. A real chance to leave the Outskirts behind.”

  Just then, they heard shouting in the distance. The twins ducked behind a grave. “I think someone’s trying to signal you,” said Jack Cross. “A woman.” They peered over the top of the stone slab. It was Tatty, waving a pair of white underwear.

  Charlotte’s face turned bright red. Couldn’t she have used something else to wave?

  Sonja grabbed the marionettes and pulled Charlotte by the arm. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Nice meeting you, Jack Cross!” Charlotte called, waving goodbye.

  Jack Cross waved back. “Maybe I’ll see you at the auditions!” he shouted cheerfully after them.

  Charlotte turned, following Sonja across the graveyard. She felt as though she could run and sing and laugh all at the same time. “Our first friend.”

  “Hardly.”

  “We’ve never had a friend our own age. Don’t you think it would be a good opportunity?”

  “We don’t need friends. We have each other.”

  “We don’t want to be like those weird twins who live alone together for their whole lives, do we?”

  Sonja shrugged. “Why not?”

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks. “What’s that?”

  A white Persian cat stood in their path. Her frizzy tail swished from side to side. She held a crisp envelope in her pink mouth.

  Sonja reached down and took it. A name was scrawled across the front. “It’s for Bea.”

  “Thank you, kitty,” Charlotte crooned. She bent down to pet the cat. The creature’s orange eyes flickered. Her claws sprang out, and she swiped Charlotte’s hand.

  “Ow!” shrieked Charlotte, jumping back. She watched, frozen, as the cat stared up at her with what looked like the faintest smile on her face—then turned away with a hiss and disappeared among the gravestones.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Bearded Lady

  THE TWINS STOOD IN FRONT OF THE PINK DOOR OF A pink caravan. Sonja knocked lightly. She knew Bea hated to be disturbed during her boudoir. After a moment, a pretty young woman with thick wavy hair—and a full-grown beard set neatly into rollers—stuck her head out, yawning.

  “Everyone’s pretty upset about those Enforcers snooping around today. Luckily, they didn’t search in here.” She pointed at Monkey. “He can’t come in.”

  Monkey stuck his tongue out, jumped to the ground, and scurried away. The twins followed Bea inside. She flopped onto her bed. Everything in the caravan was pink, including the crumpled bedsheets. “I heard you nearly brought the whole circus down last night.”

  Sonja frowned. “We can’t help it. You’d think everyone would be a little more understanding.”

  Bea opened a box of chocolates on her lap. She took a minuscule bite out of one and returned it to its wrapper. “One thing I’ve learned the hard way is you can’t depend on anyone for anything. Especially understanding.”

  Sonja stared at Bea. She remembered how they used to stay up nights, hearing stories about Bea’s life before the circus, about how her parents had kicked her out of the house when they saw stubble on her chin. These days, Bea acted as if she were too mature for the girls. She hardly came to see them anymore.

  Bea offered Charlotte and Sonja the box of chocolates. “Go on. Take one.”

  Sonja noticed that each bonbon had a bite taken-out of it. She shrugged and popped a half-eaten one into her mouth. She chewed with her eyes closed. It had been a long time since she had tasted chocolate. She licked her fingers in case there was any trace left.

  “They’re from the city,” boasted Bea. “My boyfriend gave them to me.”

  Sonja rolled her eyes. Boyfriend this, boyfriend that. That’s all Bea talked about anymore.

  “He’s a Richer, you know. Swimming in coins!”

  “I don’t like Richers,” said Charlotte. “They’re all money and no heart.”

  “What would you know?” Bea’s eyes darkened. She snatched away the box. “Why are you here, anyway?”

  Sonja pulled out the letter. “It was delivered by a cat.”

  “A cat?” Bea straightened. “A fluffy white one?”

  Charlotte showed the cat scratches on the back of her hand. “She’s dangerous.”

  Bea snatched the letter and tore it open. “He’s coming tonight!” she said, reading feverishly. “To my performance.” She jumped out of bed and pulled the rollers out of her beard. “I need to get ready.” She ushered the twins out the door.

  “But you have eight hours,” said Charlotte.

  “Exactly!” Bea slammed the door behind them.

  Sonja shook her head. “Pathetic. All that for some creepy Richer with a cat.”

  “Let’s give him a chance. Maybe he’ll turn out to be nice.”

  Sonja looked at Charlotte suspiciously. It was just like her: obsessed with love stories. Sonja had to stay sharp or Charlotte would end up running away with some idiot—like that boy in the cemetery. What was his name? Oh, yeah. Jack Cross.

  The other circus members’ caravans were arranged in two rows of three, end-to-end. After years in the business, Pershing had figured out the perfect parking formation: the caravans were close enough to shout from one window to another, but far enough not to hear neighbors snoring. The three clowns lay sprawled on their caravan steps smoking. Their makeup was smudged, and their props and cost
umes were scattered across the ground, wet and trampled.

  “Thank you so much for inviting those Enforcers to visit today,” croaked Balthazar. He had a bleeding lip. “They were just charming.”

  “Oh, leave them alone,” said the Fat Lady from her deck chair under an umbrella. She was a perfect square: as wide as she was tall. She sipped at a cup of hot coffee. Black drops spattered her robe. She leaned forward and whispered. “I used to have a cousin who could flip spoons just by staring at them.” She winked. “Hocus-pocus doesn’t scare me.”

  “Thanks, Gertie,” said Charlotte.

  The Snake Charmer stuck her head out of her caravan window. The boa slithered across her shoulders, hissing. “Alfonso’s furious! He had to hide under a sink all morning because of you two!”

  “I don’t see how that’s our fault,” grumbled Sonja.

  “Maybe you’ll change your tune once you’ve seen what they’ve done to your caravan!”

  That is when the girls noticed that the door was hanging, crooked, from one hinge. They crept up the stairs and peeked inside. Drawers were flung open; books, clothes, and shoes were strewn; the mattress was overturned. Sonja looked around, panicked. The Enforcers had never been this thorough.

  “They didn’t find anything,” Tatty assured them. She was sitting at the table with Mr. Fortune Teller. Monkey was hovering over a plate of burned pancakes. Each time he reached for one, Tatty slapped his little hand.

  “This time, they weren’t trying to scare us,” said the old man. “They were really looking for the two of you. They said something about your act causing unrest, and about charges they had against you for stealing from forbidden junkyards.”

  Sonja groaned. They had tracked them down the other night.

  Tatty looked up at the girls, disappointed. “You promised me you’d never go to one again.”