by A. R. Moxon
The breathless crowd sits mute in shock. Then, as a single entity, they begin to applaud, hoot, stomp, and howl in tumultuous approbation of this new distraction, this bold and daring opening act. The Circus of Bearded Love has begun.
* * *
—
Bailey’s in the wrong room. She’s not sure how she fell into it, but this is the room with nightmare in it. In this room Gordy has either been murdered by a gorilla (if correlation can occasionally be buddies with causation) or else (if Sterling is to be trusted) has disappeared completely.
This is the room in which Morris was right all along, if Jane is to be believed. Where his death dooms the world, and so does any eventuality that fails to end with his triumph. Jane has also disappeared completely, in a way—she was ordered to the platform by the salamander-tongued thing that is Morris, to twist and jump and fly, and, with one last desperate look at her daughter, compelled by weaponry, she went. Look at Morris. Daniel did that to him—your Daniel. This is Pigeon Forge, and Pigeon Forge is the room in which Daniel has become some grotesque god of vengeance. This is a bad room—the worst room.
This is the room with the fountain in it.
The fountain, white as a gorilla’s tooth but deadlier, looms beside the cage. It makes a high and wheedling sound in your brain, a sound of hardness destroying hardness in seven synchronal but discordant squeals, of toenails on the chalkboard of perception, of a diamond lath cutting steel. Looking at it makes you feel as if you want to vomit but lack a stomach from which to do so. Looking at it is like looking at a paradox of blasphemy, as if it were simultaneously three mutually exclusive concepts of evil.
This is the room with the cage in it, and Bailey is in the cage.
This is the room with the stage in it, and the thing is on the stage.
The thing. Morris. Earlier this year, this thing had been the cat who had, with a flick of his arm, set her head free of her body. He’s making himself understood by way of pantomime and scrawl; somebody’s procured a chalkboard for him. On the chalkboard, Morris has commanded them to bring the guns, all the guns. This is the room where Morris has amazed everybody, overthrowing a coup by the Andrews that had heretofore been presumed successful. He is ascendant once more, and his remaining servants huddle around his grotesquerie, wearing red ceremonial garb. They’re scrupulous and attentive and dazed and terrified. One trustee has made her way forward, advancing while bowing, presenting to him a velvet-lined box. From the box, he removes two placards carved from dark wood, one bearing the image of a shovel and another the image of a bird. With ostentatious deliberation, he selects the image of the bird, and, borrowing a nearby sword, with slow and ceremonious strokes, hacks it to bits.
The man in the corner of the cage moans. He’s a tall cardinal, this man in the corner—or a former cardinal, to be accurate. It seems the man in the corner has been deemed more collaborative in the coup than the rest. The man in the corner’s costume is gone to tatters, his face and body pulped by his fellows, who, each relieved not to have themselves been elected scapegoat, punished him with zeal before caging him. “That’s bad,” the man in the corner mumbles through broken teeth, indicating the destruction of the placard. “That’s really bad. Nobody gets the bird?” Bailey has no idea what this means, nor does she ask. What do details matter? She can read clearly enough the sign of a man prepared to wield the spade: This is the room where everybody dies. For a season, Bailey tells herself, you even let yourself think you’d found your Attic—you believed the world was full of rooms, each as fascinating as the next—but that was a lie, too. Where are you now, Boyd? None of this was in your book.
The cardinals have brought the guns. They’ve made a circle around their leader, and they watch the tent roof. “The Coyote always comes from the sky,” Sterling murmurs. Bailey, tired of listening, decides the tall redbird has the right idea—solitude—and hutches up in the far corner. She thought if she fought long enough and hard enough she could keep them all safe, get them all free, but it was a lie. You can ignore a lie if you live with it long enough, but the lie led to this room, which, like all other rooms in the world, lies. This is the room with death in it, and so are all the rest of them, all of them hiding death within; despite all other enticements and wonder, underneath is only death and death and death. This whole wide world is the room where all those years ago we should have simply let Ralph kill us with the rest of the kids, end the pain before it could get started. Now Yale’s dead, and soon you will be. Daniel’s not dead; not dead, but something worse. Soon he’ll be shot dead by the waiting redbirds, or else he’ll survive to become something even graver than a corpse. Daniel got everything he wanted, which is the worst thing he could ever have gotten.
But—Bailey can’t stop herself wondering—what if there’s still something in him left to save? He’s not dead, not yet. Just look for a chance, one chance. There was a time when we were young and hungry and alone. There was a time when all we had was each other, and that was real. Two pieces of flotsam lashed to each other in the wide ocean, forehead to forehead, hands on each other’s ears. I’d have died if not for him. He’d have died if not for me. We don’t owe each other anything and never have; it’s past anything like debt. We are what we are to each other, and that’s all; we’re the original lost children, we’re survival itself. And what if—what if, in fighting for him, you might find some new possibility, one where there is and always was a brother? What if somehow you can run through rooms until you find Boyd, lost and writing to you from the never-was? What was it he told you, back in the Attic?
You’ll have to run, Boyd had said. You’ll have to jump, and trust your luck.
Bailey sneers at herself—Stop it. You’re done fighting. This is the room with death. Maybe there will even be a wave, if crazy bearded Jane’s right. The end of the world—wouldn’t that be nice? To let it happen and then everything will be done and over, and you can stop thinking about it?
Sterling has picked his way over to her, careful not to step on any of the huddled prisoners. He’s removed his sandals and dangles one from each thumb. “Got a feeling you ought to put these on,” he says, tossing them onto the sawdust beside her. “I’m going back to tend to Finch.” Obediently, with nothing better to do, Bailey exchanges shoes for sandals, watches Sterling retreat once more to the far side of the cage near the door. Next door, on the other side of the partitioning tapestry, she can hear the great roar of the crowd, thrilling to the trapeze. The next room over is the one with the circus in it.
Hi, there, the Sandals Julius say. There’s going to be a scuffle soon. We might dare to hope that in the commotion they’ll forget to close the door to our cage.
* * *
—
In the aftermath of the beast’s rampage, the ovation swells and carries, it fills the tent and holds them, suspends them, lifts them, exalts them. A new thing has happened, something wholly unanticipated, something never previously conceived; this is why they celebrate. Not just for the distraction of it, not just for the spectacle, not even for the violence, but for the novelty, the originality, the innovation. It’s a harbinger of change, an indication that—for the first time—there may be some hope, some possibility, of a different outcome than the one they’ve so long unconsciously prepared themselves to accept. They applaud the very idea of change, hoping without fully allowing themselves to know why they hope; they rejoice and clap and jubilate, triumphant as if they, having witnessed innovation, have also been the cause; they celebrate what they have seen until it feels as if they celebrate themselves.
Then, just as the extended plateau of their tumult has begun to seem awkward, two of the spotlights blink out. Music builds as the remaining center light rises, rises, rises, finding at last the bearded lady atop the platform in her bright-green singlet. She is utterly alone. Deaf to their acknowledgment. Blind to their entreaties. Like a high priestess of flight, she raises her hands in ceremonial flourish, and, a
s the music reaches crescendo, she leaps into the air.
* * *
—
Most folk in the cage huddle on the floor or lean on the bars, as if their fate and numinous fear of the fountain has robbed them of strength sufficient to hold their own weight. Finch stands near the cage door, watching the thing that had been Morris with a concerned expression. Sterling Shirker hurries back to keep watch beside her. He’s eyeing the semblants and trustees, watchful and nervous—You hoped to finally protect your boy, but Gordy’s like water, you can’t hold onto him more than a second or two. If you can’t watch over your own child, you may as well look after another’s. Look at them, prowling, guns pointed skyward, watching for the Coyote. Nervous as unshorn spring sheep. Dangerous as winter wolves. They don’t know who to side with no more. They don’t know what to do. Gordy never attacked with his power, he only defended—his big trick was to run away. But what to do with the Coyote? The cardinals have learned the toady’s game; befriend the meanest dog in the yard and ride his mangy back. They’d take the Coyote’s part if he’d have them, but he won’t mess with them. They took up with the Andrews when they could, but now their old boss is back. They’re clinging to him the best they can, but what do they do when he loses? What do they do when the Coyote finally gets bored with Morris and switches his blood for lighter fluid, then flicks his Bic? Then who will the Coyote fix his attention to? They know who; it’ll be them. Or—here’s a worse thought—what if Morris somehow, someway, beyond any hope and any sense, wins this battle? Is he apt to forget his servants didn’t take his part during his torment, when he was tied up like an animal, being rearranged piece by piece? No. The Coyote might spare them, however thin the chance may be, but Morris never will. He’s using them now only because they’ll let themselves be used. They’re all dead men and they won’t let themselves know it.
“That man is scared,” Finch says. She’s pointing at Morris, who is strutting about on the stage, using an axe as a makeshift cane. He’s got a revolver and he’s fervidly scanning the tent roof, waiting for the Coyote to come bursting through. For now, he seems content to wait for his tormentor, but he’ll soon begin the proceedings, for reasons of continuity and decorum if nothing else. Sterling puts a hand on her shoulder, but the gesture feels foolish, and he withdraws it.
“Yep,” Sterling says. “He’s scared all right. He’s the biggest scaredy-cat in this joint. But then, we all ought to be scared right about now.”
“I’m not scared,” Finch says.
Yes, thinks Sterling, you aren’t scared; that’s my problem. You’re your mama’s girl. I best stick close. From the front side of the tent, he hears the exaltations of the crowd, lately on the decrease, reach new heights of enthusiasm. Jane must have started flying over on the other side, catching and tossing and catching herself, bearding gravity in its lair; Jane Sim, defender of prisoners, artist of the page and the stage and the wire. The bravest girl in the world.
Sterling is glad of Finch, who provides some focus for his fear—I reckon if Jane’s girl weren’t here to protect, I’d pick someone at random. It’s fool’s work. We’re trapped in this cage. Protect her, how? With yourself? To save somebody’s life for how long? A minute extra? Useless. Fool’s work, but I’m just the fool for the job. Wish I hadn’t given my sandals away. What made me do it? Some impulse. Idiot thing to do; now I’m all alone.
Morris has for now stopped ruminating over the danger from above. He’s turned his livid, chitin-lidded eyeballs to the cage. With the hand holding the chalk he jabs emphatically at Finch, and then, for good measure, he scrumbles to the board and scrawls:
THE GIRL FIRST.
Sterling sighs for Jane’s sake—It’s like you figured. He’s going to go for the throat. A final lesson about crossing the boss. No thought to the mercy Jane showed you in your pain now that you’ve crawled back to power. Certainly no thought for the fact that this is your own daughter. Jane returns from sky-dancing for the yahoos and finds her bird already crushed. Then the rest of us. Then he’ll empty out the oubliettes and shear his sheep. He’s done trying to cajole us; now he only wants to end us.
Two cardinals step forward, weapons at the ready. One of them has the cage key. All the others have plastered themselves against the back of the cage, as if they hadn’t read the instructions, but the girl doesn’t fluster or flinch. She watches them come, not unafraid but calm and still, as curious as any bird. Sterling chuckles at her bravery in spite of it all—She’s her mama’s child all day long. As they swing the door out, he slips smoothly in front of Finch.
The trustee puts his gun muzzle an inch from Sterling’s nose; Sterling goes cross-eyed for a moment in an attempt to track it. Not such a bad way to go if that’s going to be it. Nice and fast and then it’s done. Sterling spreads his arms out and grabs the bars on either side of the door.
“Not the girl first, captain. Me first.”
The trustee looks dumbly back at the board, points to the instruction written there.
“The girl first,” he says, dumbly comic in his confusion.
“No, cousin. Me first.”
“Girl first,” the other trustee snaps.
“Step aside,” says the first trustee in a schoolmarmish wheedle.
“There’s no moving me,” Sterling says, more confident—If they were going to shoot they’d have shot already. No way these two want to get on Morris’s worse side, breaking the protocol of the ceremony with freelance killing. “Me first. Him next. You next-next. You next-est of all.” They don’t like this. His babble is incomprehensible to them, but they know some sort of fun is being made. The first trustee makes a quick stab with his gun, popping Sterling in the nose with the muzzle. There’s a burst of pain, a rush of blood, but his hands on the bars steady him and he finds he can manage through it. Sterling says, loudly, so all of them can hear:
“I’m going up there first, and you’d better believe you all are going to be next. Boys, your best move is to take off those fancy red jimmy-jams and walk away, quick as you can.” He looks at Morris, a nightmare goulash clustercake: his mouth toothless, his matted beard a glut of gore. “If ever a man got on the losing end of a tangle, it’s that boy right there. And you’re betting on him? He got his ass wrapped in a tamale and handed to him in a paper bag every round of this fight. You want be wearing his uniform when the Coyote comes?”
Morris has made his way from the platform during this speech, as quick as his foot-flails and gamy leg will allow. It’s hard to read his expression; Sterling assumes it’s fury, but with his eyelids altered, he’s going to look furious no matter what. As Morris shoulders between his trustees, Sterling smiles—Ah, Jane. I’ve learned a trick or two from you, lady. I ain’t scared of this chicken-buzzard any more, either.
He steps from the cage to meet whatever’s coming. “Howdy, captain. We never did finish our old conversat—” But Morris has put his right fist on his own left shoulder, and then, swift as a diving swallow, has passed it across his chest; now he points at the sawdust. Somehow he’s holding a short sword, or else it’s a long knife, how interesting, what is the difference, where do you draw the distinction, when does a knife become a sword? What a funny thought. There is a burning and a pulling. A smell of burning whiskers, a smell of fresh sardines, a smell of peaches, a smell he can’t place that puts him in mind of his childhood. There is a deep and growing pain lower down his midsection. How interesting. Sterling smiles at Morris, because he can see they are finally thinking the same thing about his weapon’s categorization: knife or sword, or swife or or, nord? You see, Morris? You see it too, it’s funny, yes? Yes.
There is a tremble in the ground, a premonitory subterranean approach of something large. He looks downward for its source.
His belly is smiling, too—smiling wide and friendly. Everybody’s in on the joke.
Oh, Sterling thinks. I get it now.
His belly is smiling, and his belly�
��s smile sticks its gray-gut tongue out at him.
Gordy-Gord.
Ah, Gordy-Gordy-Gord. Ah Finch. Children, I didn’t have too much help to give you, did I. Hope it was enough. Probably it wasn’t even close.
Ah. Here we go then.
The subterranean rumble grows and then there’s a nearby explosion upward. Quite a lot of shouting, and what sounds like firecrackers. Sterling intends to turn his head to take a gander, but it’s too much right now, he’ll look at the commotion tomorrow—Remember, tomorrow you should turn your head to the left to see the…the
* * *
—
Jane’s audience has become a mass, a collective, an undifferentiated tissue of apprehension and sensation. There is the ever-moving spotlight upon her, and a flood of lumens bathes each of the clowns on their poles who throw and catch the bars for her, but the largest spotlight is trained on the ground, to show beyond conjecture there is no net. None but the long-timers have seen the act—it’s been years since Jane has performed to this crowd—thus they are unmindful of the high wire suspended below, able to convince themselves there is nothing but the leap and the catch, flip and somersault, jackknife, spin, one-handed grab, and if any one catch should go awry, there will be nothing but the fall.
They are with her now; almost they think they are her. They lift with her, they soar. Jane flies, so they fly. No more thought to the worry of the day, fear of the week, terror of the year. Here it is, a moment of perfection, a reality past their own, which can transport them from the thought of what is being done to them in their midst. After will come the usual distractions: animal trainers, the forced hilarity of clowns, and a few other oddments—unicyclists, tumblers, the strong men in their gray sweatsuits, jugglers, prestidigitators—but this is the real show, restored as it used to be, as it always again will be. The opening masterpiece, the transport of the flying lady…