Shadows Falling: The Lost #2

by Melyssa Williams

  Gertie and Lulu were a draw too, naturally. They had a reputation and their names alone went ahead of us in the night; if we traveled by train (a rare treat), the names of the twins went bobbing along beside, like a beacon in the night. If we traveled by foot, their reputation rushed ahead, paving our way for a bit of success, a bit of promise, the delight of a full belly, the joy of a happy crowd. Lulu and Gertie were our bread and butter, and that dumb animal was the jam.

  I began to learn more tricks.

  Solomon could throw knives like a magician. With the skill of a marksman and the grace of a dancer, he could throw them at people’s heads. He began his show with a request for a volunteer. People being people, therefore complete and utter wastes of skin, would consistently endanger his skill. No matter the brave farm boy, the savvy city girl, the mustached gentleman, and so on and so forth, they would consistently ruin his show. Flinching was the best he could hope for, utter panic and ducking and screaming the norm. It annoyed him mightily, though he smiled and pretended to be sympathetic. Really, he wanted to show his skills, and it was difficult to do that when your assistant is running off. So I became his girl, his never flinching, brave girl; at the age of nine I could do what most soldiers could not. I could stand, fierce and calm, as he threw razor sharp knives at my body.

  This is what I would do:

  I would stand flat, against a painted back drop of canvas. It was painted bright white, and the color red was used to paint a huge target that completely engulfed me. I stood, straight as an arrow and twice as still, and the first throw would go a little off.

  On purpose, of course.

  It would barely even hit the canvas; winging madly off the side and clinging only just to the very edge, it would wobble and throb in the peripheral of my vision.

  The second would be nearly as bad.

  The crowd would begin to jeer a bit.

  “No wonder she was your willing participate, sir!” they’d laugh. “Why, I’ll be up there next if that’s the best your aim can do!”

  The third shot would wildly veer off and pin my skirt to the canvas. The crowd would gasp a bit, mostly the women and children. They realized I could not easily go anywhere should a shot go awry; the knife held me fast.

  The fourth would whiz by my ear, my stoic, never flinching ear, and land so close to me that a lady would inevitably shriek.

  The fifth would pin my hair to the board, and still, I never moved.

  The sixth would land square between my third and second fingers of my left hand, just like we had practiced, and if I lifted up my thumb and forefinger I could nearly caress the metal blade, and I was always tempted to, but still I held still. The crowd would now be utterly silent, but I could normally hear a murmured prayer or two.

  The seventh would bind my skirt more tightly to the canvas bull’s eye, and the eighth would miss my boot by the tiniest hair’s breath.

  The ninth would graze my hair again, and I would feel the ivy crown tremor with the weight of the blade as it settled through the leaf. At least half the crowd would now be telling Solomon to stop.

  The tenth, and final, knife would be thrown with such force that I would have been knocked backwards, if I hadn’t had the heavy canvas backdrop behind me, supporting me, and in fact, pinned to me, like a young girl’s embroidery caught in its hoop. I was stretched tight, and escape—at least a quick escape—would have been nearly impossible.

  The tenth knife would miss my throat, but only just.

  Someone would swoon, someone would curse Solomon, someone else would shake his hand merrily, someone would rush to help me, and they all would pay their admission in relief.

  The time came when I was weary of being the prey of Solomon’s knives (I wasn’t frightened but I was bored), and he grudgingly let me practice my own throwing skills. At first I was dreadful; I had no depth perception, no knowledge of the mechanics of force and gravity and flight, no premonition of where my wayward tosses would land. But one thing I did have: a love for the feel of the handle in my palm, the way it fit my tiny fingers perfectly, the way the cheap silver glinted in the sun, especially as it somersaulted and flipped its way to its target. The way I felt at home and secure and in love with the knives.

  Wonderful, I think nervously. Give a mentally ill girl a set of knives. A fabulous idea, Solomon, old boy. Remind me to thank you.

  I find myself dreading a bit the next few pages, but of course I’m caught like a ram in a thicket; escape for me is impossible, and I must rely on my instincts or my rescuer for liberation. So, I read on, as my duties go unperformed, and my mind cries out for sleep, and my rescuer is absent, and my instincts are asking for more of the same.

  Naturally, at first and for a while, no one would stand still for me, not even Solomon. I used an outline on the old canvas target that I chalked in, a bit like the murder victim’s outline that would come decades and decades later. I digress.

  Odd, I think.

  I practiced and practiced, until I knew the weight of every individual knife. Of course they were a set, and they should have been equals, undistinguishable, identical. They were not. They had their own personalities, their own quirks. One was just a hair lighter; one flew inexplicably faster; one was chipped—only the tiniest bit—on the tip; one was not quite right in the handle. Different somehow, only in ways that were minuscule to the human eye and to the everyday human tough, but to a knife thrower?

  Wholly dissimilar.

  And there was the best part: The element of danger, that even I, the artist, the magician, could not predict.

  I relished it. I loved it.

  I became quicker and faster, until my throws were a blur. Partly because it was the act, partly because I liked the thrill of not knowing until it had fled from my fingers which knife I had chosen. If I slowed down I could easily adjust for the knife’s idiosyncrasies. Not adjusting was simply more exhilarating.

  Where would they land? I mused, as one went wildly awry. Where would they land, indeed?

  After I became skilled enough with the knives, Solomon let me use the bear. It roared at me as it was lashed to the canvas. Had it any sense at all and knew it was a bear, it could have untied its ropes easily, but as it was, it was a captive from birth, and captives are helpless if they don’t learn early on to free themselves. In vain he struggled pathetically against his ropes and its only complaints were his food bowl left too far from his reach. The knives that whizzed by his fur didn’t faze him much at all, and I was disappointed by his lack of terror.

  By my tenth birthday we had traveled what felt like the length of the globe and back. I did not know how long my time with Solomon and the gypsies would last, and I felt the pull of some kind of strange gravity tugging at me. It was like the ticking of a clock.

  Tick tock, it mocked.

  Hurry up, girl.

  Hurry up, girl, indeed, I think hastily, as I shove the diary back in my apron and make a show of bustling out of the room. Footsteps are coming my way, and I don’t need Miss Helmes’ iron glare at my laziness to condemn me. I make a show of smiling brightly at her as we pass in the hallway, me with my bucket of cleaning supplies and her with her disapproving looks. She stands straight and watches me like a hawk with her long, skinny neck, without a word as I turn the hallway. I feel like running, but I am far too tired to do more than shuffle quickly.

  A shiny, cheerful new member of Bethlem’s staff stops me as I nearly plow into him. My bucket of supplies clatter to the floor, and my duster rolls away merrily. The boy (for boy he is; he can’t be older than myself, and I would wager a year or so younger) steadies me with his hands at my elbows.

  “All right then, miss?” he inquires politely. He has the stocky build of a farmboy, and an unfortunate shade of red hair.

  “Quite all right, thank you, but I’ve seem to have lost my duster under the settee there.”

  “Ah.” He looks the way my finger is pointing. “I expect a gentleman would go after it, wouldn’t he?”
<
br />   “I expect so, but I’ve never met one in this sodding place. Anyway, my arms are thinner than yours, so I’ll find it, thanks. Hold my bucket?” I hold it out expectantly.

  “Of course.” He does so, but his manner suggests he’d rather not. He holds it out to his side gingerly as if afraid of the bleach and vinegar and scrub brushes.

  “I’m Lizzie, by the way,” I say, by way of introduction, as I crawl as far beneath the settee as the space allows, that is to say, all of my arms up to the shoulders. “And you are?”

  “Mack. Just Mack.”

  “Well, Just Mack,” I stand again, my feather duster in hand, and retrieve my bucket. “I do hope you like it here. It’s always an adventure, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.”

  “Helmes got you cleaning cracks in the flooring yet? Or stripping blood off walls?” I can’t help myself, he’s so impressionable looking. Still has his mother’s apron’s strings attached, I’d bet. I reach out and pat his back as I turn to go.

  “Blood on walls? Really? Where?” To my surprise, he seems intrigued. Maybe there is more man to him than I’d realized.

  “The other place. Never mind. My point is, you’ll be doing a lot fewer medical things here at Bedlam than you will laundry and kitchen duty.”

  “Well, we all start somewhere, eh? And me, I’ve been told to start in the operating room today. Assisting a lobotomy.” He puffs out his chest boastfully. “My first, you know.”

  Lucky sod.

  6

  About an hour later I come across Mr. Connelly, him of the impeccable clothing and ludicrous good looks. He is lounging (there is no other word for it) in a chair in the waiting room. His polished shoes are propping up his feet and legs on Miss Helmes’ cherry wood end table, and his hat is down over his eyes. The reason, it seems, is that he is sleeping.

  Sleeping in a mental institution, I think, bemused. What a relaxed man is our Mr. Connelly. Most visitors are jumpy and anxious when they’re here. He seems quite at home.

  I give in to a childish impulse that I can only blame on orphanage living and kick his feet out from under him, and he slides wildly to the floor in a heap of clothes and legs and arms. He glares up at me and rights his hat.

  “Oh dear, I’m dreadfully sorry,” I deadpan. “I thought you were dead, victim of one of our dear inmates. Some are dangerous, don’t you know?”

  “Yes, I met the most dangerous one not a few moments ago. A Mr. Limpet, I believe. Asked me to dance. Tried to take me in his arms. Afraid I had to decline. My girl wouldn’t like it. You got my pants creased.” He looks cross.

  “Dreadfully sorry,” I repeat. To myself, I think, he’s got a girl? Well, good, she can press his pants. “Did you ever find who you were looking for?”

  “No, not exactly. I was hoping you could help me with that actually. You’ve been here a bit longer than some of the others. The last boy that ran through here, eager to help me, had been here about ten minutes, I think. I had to tell him where to find the toilet.”

  “Sounds like Mack. Evidently, he is one of our best surgeons, and yes, before you ask, I’m a bit bitter about that. Anyway, who are you looking to find?”

  “Small girl, young, about your age, I suppose. Blonde. She’s been here—,” he pauses and reflects for a moment. “Oh, I don’t even know. Not long. A fortnight, perhaps? Or longer? At least, I think she’s here. She should be here.” His voice trails off a bit, and I can’t quite catch the next part. “She’s always here,” is what I think I hear.

  “We have a few under the age of twenty, yes, but a name would probably expedite our search, Mr. Connelly.”

  “Oh, I thought I’d said that.” He pulls the brim of his hat a bit lower and averts his eyes from me. “It’s Gray. Rose Gray?”

  ********************

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts, but I recover quickly. Here I thought I was reading the diary of a girl long gone and yet the ink had hardly dried. My age then. Now. Here in my hospital, to boot? Unexpected, and not quite the pleasure I would have thought it to be.

  I had caught my breath when he had said the name of our mutual acquaintance, and now I let it out and allow my eyes to find his face again. He is looking at me quizzically.

  “Do you know her then?” He looks at me like he can read me like a book. He is positively scanning my very soul with those eyes.

  “No, no I don’t know her, but I have heard of her,” I falter.

  He smiles ruefully. “Yes, our Rose’s reputation always precedes her, I’m afraid. What has she done this time?”

  “Oh. Oh, well, I believe she stabbed someone through the hand with sewing scissors.” No point in lying to the poor chap; he’d find out eventually.

  Mr. Connelly surprises me by laughing outright. “Ah, that’s my girl,” he says, fondly. “I do apologize on her behalf, of course. The staff should know by now not to let her near weapons though. If I’ve warned them once, I’ve warned them a thousand times. Actually, I have warned them a thousand times.” His rueful smile is back, and though I’ve not the foggiest notion what he’s talking about really, I can’t help but smile, too. “Where is she then? Do you know that? Miss Helmes seems vague on that particular detail.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know either. Not exactly. I don’t know her personally or by sight. I do know...” I take a deep breath, but feel as though I cannot go on with the divulging of my secret. It would be sharing her, sharing Rose, and though I’ve no love for her, I do not want the diary confiscated until I can finish it.

  “Yes?” Mr. Connelly prompts.

  “I do know her words, that is, her handwriting. That is, I have this. It belongs to her.” I reach in my apron and bring out the small, red journal. He takes it from me and turns it over in his hand, flips through the pages. Though they aren’t terribly old, I know now, I’m still worried for them.

  “It seemed older at first,” I interject. “I thought she was a patient a long time ago. I had no idea she was still here.”

  “She’s always here,” he muses. He had said that just a few minutes before, hadn’t he? “But yes, yes, it seems old because it is old.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” he looks at me quite sorrowfully. “One of these days though, my girl, I’m afraid you might.”

  “Whatever does that mean?” I am taken aback.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I was only hoping you’d know her, know my Rose. But you don’t, do you?” His eyes search me again, but this time, he is the one to pull away first. “It doesn’t matter. Will this tell me where to find her then?” he looks again at the diary, this time with more interest than before.

  “I don’t know,” I pause. “I haven’t made it all the way through yet. I am still learning about her.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  “Well, your Rose seems a bit...” I pause, once again, but this time because I am choosing my words carefully. “A bit confused and lost.”

  “Ah. You’ve hit the nail on the head. She was indeed. And are you reading of her childhood then?”

  “Yes, I’m up to the part where she thinks she’s traveling with a sideshow. Ring any bells?”

  “Mmm. India perhaps, or the gypsies?”

  “Gypsies, yes. They’ve taken her in, and they are traveling while she chucks knives at wildlife.”

  Mr. Connelly laughs. “Yes, she told me about that. And then? Where did she go from there?”

  “I don’t know yet. Perhaps you could tell me once you read it?”

  “Me, read it?” In surprise, he looks down at the diary as though he’d forgotten he held it. He hands it back to me. “No, I think you’re doing splendidly on your own. I already know the past. Only the future interests me. If you find a clue to that, Miss, would you let me know?” He tips his hat. “And don’t worry, she’ll turn up.”

  After the bear died of old age a few weeks after he became my partner in the knife throwing, Solomon stepped in. Of course,
it made him seem terribly brave or terribly stupid, but really it was all a question of skill and mathematics and science and practice. I would never go too quickly with Solomon against my target as I was quite fond of him. I wouldn’t have relished a life in that era without him. The twins were strange and odd and didn’t care for me, not even sweeter tempered Gertie, and neither did anyone else. They only tolerated me at all because I brought in more of a crowd with my tiny, angel-like appearance and because any misgivings they may have had about my personality were stifled by Solomon’s watchful eye and quick tongue. I was used to people not liking me, so it hardly bothered me, but that didn’t mean I wanted no company at all.

  One night in late October, a party came to see us. We already had a crowd, and their group of ten or so, mostly blathering young girls, made it the largest I had ever performed for. We did coin tricks, sold bottles of potions, collected tickets to see the twins in their dark and separate tent, and told fortunes by the light of the gypsy wagon. The group of girls were rich, their frocks the whitest whites with huge bows and boots that laced up tightly. They all had gloves of lace with pearl buttons, and I found myself desiring a pair myself. I eyed them longingly as I took their tickets.

  One, a girl of perhaps twelve, was the ring leader (it was her birthday party) and saw me looking. She tucked her glorious locks of ebony hair behind her ear and tapped me on the nose.

  “Would you like gloves like mine, little gypsy urchin? Look, girls, how she stares at us!”

  The others tittered.

  “As if we are the odd ones here!” another whispered loudly.

  “Why are you so yellow haired, gypsy girl? Did they steal you away?” The first girl leaned towards me, as if voicing a conspiracy. “Were you a nice girl like us, with a family, and the dirty gypsies came and stole you away?”