Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (2 page)

G——, however, and O—— disagreed. They pointed to the sordidness of the surroundings, the seedy costumes of the other acts, Bobo’s little horn, his tears, the difficult benches, and the smell of cotton candy, and their volume of essays,
The Blank Day,
was much given to analogies to Darwin, Mondrian, and Beckett. Like many others, I skimmed the books, but did not feel that they had touched the real Bobo, the real Taxi: their resonant arguments, phrased with such tact and authority, battled at a great distance, like moths bumping their heavy wings against a screen door. A remark uttered by a friend of mine indicates much more accurately than they the actual quality of the Taxi’s performance.

“I like to think,” he told me, “of Bobo before he became famous. You must know the theory that he used to be an ordinary man with an ordinary job. He was a doctor, or an accountant, or a professor of mathematics. My sister-in-law is certain that he was the vice president of a tobacco company. ‘It’s in his posture,’ she says. Anyhow, what I like to picture is the morning that he walked out of his house, going to work in the ordinary way, and found the Taxi waiting for him at the curb, not knowing that it was his destiny, entirely unforeseen, black and purring softly, pregnant with miracle.”

Smoke & Mirrors

Amanda Downum

The circus was in town.

Not just any circus, either, but Carson & Kindred’s Circus Fabulatoris and Menagerie of Mystical Marvels. The circus Jerusalem Morrow ran away to join when she was seventeen years old. Her family for seven years.

She laid the orange flyer on the kitchen table beside a tangle of beads and wire and finished putting away her groceries. Her smile stretched, bittersweet. She hadn’t seen the troupe in five years, though she still dreamt of them. Another world, another life, before she came back to this quiet house.

Cats drifted through the shadows in the back yard as she put out food. The bottle tree—her grandmother’s tree—chimed in the October breeze: no ghosts tonight. Glass gleamed cobalt and emerald, diamond and amber, jewel-bright colors among autumn-brown leaves. Awfully quiet this year, so close to Halloween.

Salem glanced at the flyer again as she boiled water for tea. Brother Ezra, Madame Aurora, Luna and Sol the acrobats—familiar names, and a few she didn’t know. She wondered if Jack still had the parrots and that cantankerous monkey. The show was here until the end of the month . . .

It’s the past. Over and done.
She buried the paper under a stack of mail until only one orange corner showed.

Salem woke that night to the violent rattle of glass and wind keening over narrow mouths. The bottle tree had caught another ghost.

She flipped her pillow to the cool side and tried to go back to sleep, but the angry ringing wouldn’t let her rest. With a sigh she rolled out of bed and tugged on a pair of jeans. Floorboards creaked a familiar rhythm as she walked to the back door.

Stars were milky pinpricks against the velvet predawn darkness. Grass crunched cool and dry beneath her feet. A cat shrieked across the yard—they never came too near when the bottles were full. The shadows smelled of ash and bitter smoke. Goosebumps crawled up her arms, tightened her breasts.

“Stay away, witch.”

Salem spun, searching for the voice. Something gleamed ghost-pale on her roof. A bird.

“Get away!” White wings flapped furiously.

The wind gusted hot and harsh and glass clashed. Salem turned, reaching for the dancing bottles.

A bottle shattered and the wind hit her like a sandstorm, like the breath of Hell. Glass stung her outstretched palm as smoke seared her lungs. She staggered back, stumbled and fell, blind against the scouring heat.

Then it was over. Salem gasped, tears trickling down her stinging cheeks. The tree shivered in the stillness, shedding singed leaves.

Cursing, she staggered to her feet. She cursed again as glass bit deep into her heel; blood dripped hot and sticky down her instep. The burning thing was gone and so was the bird.

Salem limped back to the house as quickly as she could.

For two days she watched and listened, but caught no sign of ghosts or anything else. She picked up the broken glass and replaced the shattered bottle, brushed away the soot and charred leaves. The tree was old and strong; it would survive.

At night she dreamed.

She dreamed of a lake of tears, of fire that ate the moon. She dreamed of ropes that bit her flesh, of shining chains. She dreamed of trains. She dreamed of a snake who gnawed the roots of the world.

On the third day, a bird landed on the kitchen windowsill. It watched her through the screen with one colorless round eye and fluffed ragged feathers. Salem paused, soapsuds clinging to her hands, and met its gaze. Her shoulder blades prickled.

It held a piece of orange paper crumpled in one pale talon.

“Be careful,” she said after a moment. “There are a lot of cats out there.”

The bird stared at her and let out a low, chuckling caw. “The circus is in town. Come see the show.” White wings unfurled and it flapped away. The paper fluttered like an orange leaf as it fell.

Salem turned to see her big marmalade tomcat sitting on the kitchen table, fur all on end. He bared his teeth for a long steam-kettle hiss before circling three times and settling down with his head on his paws. She glanced through the back screen door, but the bird was gone and the bottles rattled empty in the sticky-cool October breeze.

That night she dreamed of thunder, of blood leaking through white cloth, shining black in the moonlight. No portent, just an old nightmare. She woke trembling, tears cold on her cheeks.

The next morning she wove spells and chains. She threaded links of copper and silver and bronze and hung them with shimmering glass, each bead a bottlesnare. They hung cool around her neck, a comforting weight that chimed when she moved.

As the sun vanished behind the ceiling of afternoon clouds, Salem went to see the circus.

The Circus Fabulatoris sprawled across the county fairgrounds, a glittering confusion of lights and tents and spinning rides. The wind smelled of grease and popcorn and sugar and Salem bit her lip to stop her eyes from stinging.

It had been five years; it shouldn’t feel like coming home.

She didn’t recognize any faces along the midway, smiled and ignored the shouts to
play a game, win a prize, step right up only a dollar
. Ezra would be preaching by now, calling unsuspecting rubes to Heaven. Jack would be in the big top—which wasn’t very big at all—announcing the acrobats and sword-swallowers. He’d have a parrot or a monkey on his shoulder. It was Tuesday, so probably the monkey.

She found a little blue tent, painted with shimmering stripes of color like the northern lights.
Madame Aurora
, the sign read,
fortunes told, futures revealed
.

Candlelight rippled across the walls inside, shimmered on beaded curtains and sequined scarves. Incense hung thick in the air, dragon’s blood and patchouli.

“Come in, child,” a woman’s French-accented voice called, hidden behind sheer draperies, “come closer. I see the future and the past. I have the answers you seek.”

Salem smiled. “That accent still ain’t fooling anyone.”

Silence filled the tent.

“Salem?” Shadows shifted behind the curtain, and a blonde head peered around the edge. Blue eyes widened. “Salem!”

Madame Aurora rushed toward her in a flurry of scarves and bangles and crushed Salem in a tea rose-scented hug.

“Oh my god, Jerusalem! Goddamnit, honey, you said you’d write me, you said you’d call.” Paris gave way to Savannah as Raylene Meadows caught Salem by the shoulders and shook her. She stopped shaking and hugged again, tight enough that her corset stays dug into Salem’s ribs.

“Are you back?” Ray asked, finally letting go. “Are you going on with us?”

Salem’s heart sat cold as glass in her chest. “No, sweetie. I’m just visiting. A little bird thought I should stop by.” She looked around the tent, glanced at Ray out of the corner of one eye. “Has Jack started using a white crow?”

Ray stilled for an instant, eyes narrowing. “No. No, that’s Jacob’s bird.”

“Jacob?”

“He’s a conjure man. We picked him up outside of Memphis.” Her lips curled in that little smile that meant she was sleeping with someone, and still enjoying it.

“Maybe I should meet him.”

“Have you come back to steal another man from me?”

Salem cocked an eyebrow. “If I do, will you help me bury the body?”

Ray flinched, like she was the one who had nightmares about it. Maybe she did. Then she met Salem’s eyes and smiled. “I will if you need me to.”

“Where can I find Jacob?”

Ray’s jaw tightened. “In his trailer, most likely. He’s between acts right now. It’s the red one on the far end of the row.”

“Thanks. And . . . don’t tell Jack or Ezra I’m here, okay? Not yet.”

“You gonna see them before you disappear again?”

“Yeah. I’ll try.” Laughing voices approached outside. “Better put that bad accent back on.” Salem ducked outside.

The wind shifted as she left the cluster of tents and booths, and she caught the tang of lightning. Magic. The real thing, not the little spells and charms she’d taught Ray so many years ago.

Jack had always wanted a real magician. But what did a carnival conjurer have to do with her dreams, or the angry thing that so easily broke free of a spelled bottle?

She followed the tire-rutted path to a trailer painted in shades of blood and rust. A pale shadow flitted through the clouds, drifted down to perch on the roof. The crow watched Salem approach, but stayed silent.

Someone hummed carelessly inside, broke off as Salem knocked. A second later the door swung open to frame a man’s shadowed face and shirtless shoulder.

“Hello.” He ran a hand through a shock of salt and cinnamon curls. “What can I do for you?” His voice was smoke and whiskey, rocks being worn to sand. But not the crow’s voice.

“Are you Jacob?”

“Jacob Grim, magician, conjurer, and prestidigitator, at your service.”

“That’s an interesting bird you have there.”

His stubbled face creased in a coyote’s smile. “That she is. Why don’t you step inside, Miss . . . ”

“Jerusalem.” He offered a hand and she shook it; his grip was strong, palm dry and callused. She climbed the metal stairs and stepped into the narrow warmth of the trailer.

Jacob turned away and the lamplight fell across his back. Ink covered his skin, black gone greenish with age. A tree rose against his spine, branches spreading across his shoulders and neck, roots disappearing below the waist of his pants.

He caught her staring and grinned. “Excuse my
dishabille
. I’m just getting ready for my next act.” He shrugged on a white shirt and did up the buttons with nimble fingers. The hair on his chest was nearly black, spotted with red and grey—calico colors. Ray usually liked them younger and prettier, but Salem could see the appeal.

“How may I help you, Miss Jerusalem?”

She cocked her head, studied him with
otherwise
eyes. His left eye gleamed with witchlight and magic sparked through the swirling dark colors of his aura. The real thing, all right.

“Your bird invited me to see the show.”

“And see it you certainly should. It’s a marvelous display of magic and legerdemain, if I do say so myself.” He put on a black vest and jacket, slipping cards and scarves into pockets and sleeves.

“Actually, I was hoping you might have an answer or two for me.”

He smiled. Not a coyote—something bigger. A wolf’s smile. “I have as many answers as you have questions, my dear. Some of them may even be true.” He smoothed back his curls and pulled on a black hat with a red feather in the band.

The door swung open on a cold draft before Salem could press. A young girl stood outside, maybe nine or ten. Albino-pale in the grey afternoon light, the hair streaming over her shoulders nearly as white as her dress. Salem shivered as the breeze rushed past her, much colder than the day had been.

“Time to go,” she said to Jacob. Her voice was low for a child’s and rough. She turned and walked away before he could answer.

“Your daughter?” Salem asked.

“Not mine in blood or flesh, but I look after her. Memory is my assistant.” He laid a hand on her arm, steering her gently toward the door. “Come watch the show, Jerusalem, and afterwards perhaps I’ll invent some answers for you.”

So she sat in the front row in the big top and watched Jacob’s show. He pulled scarves from his sleeves and birds from his hat—Jack’s parrots, not the white crow. He conjured flowers for the ladies, read men’s minds. He pulled a blooming rose from behind Salem’s ear and presented it with a wink and a flourish. Velvet-soft and fragrant when she took it, but when she looked again it was made of bronze, tight-whorled petals warming slowly to her hand.

He tossed knives at Memory and sawed her in half. She never spoke, never blinked. It was hard to tell in the dizzying lights, but Salem was fairly sure the girl didn’t cast a shadow.

She watched the crowd, saw the delight on their faces. Jack had wanted an act like this for years.

But not all the spectators were so amused. A man lingered in the shadows, face hidden beneath the brim of a battered hat. Salem tried to read his aura, but a rush of heat made her eyes water, leaking tears down tingling cheeks. The smell of char filled her nose, ashes and hot metal. When her vision cleared, he was gone.

After the show, she caught up with Jacob at his trailer. Ray was with him, giggling and leaning on his arm. She sobered when she saw Salem. The two of them had given up on jealousy a long time ago; Salem wondered what made the other woman’s eyes narrow so warily.

“Excuse me, my dear,” Jacob said to Ray, detaching himself gently from her grip. “I promised Jerusalem a conversation.”

Ray paused to brush a kiss across Salem’s cheek before she opened the trailer door. “Try not to shoot this one,” she whispered.

“I’m not making any promises,” Salem replied with a smile.