The New World (17 page)

“I know they'll be waiting for me.”

“Because you are a performer,” he said, looking me up and down and apparently surprised to see me still wearing my dusty Indian costume.

“You could say that,” I told him. Then I suggested, “Perhaps you'll direct me?”

“I will do better than that.” Mr. Vale laid a hand on my bare arm. “I will take you.” He stared into my face and blinked rapidly, as if dazzled by even the small amount of candlelight that shone around us.

Although I found this disconcerting, because it made him so plaintive, I said I was grateful and asked him to lead the way. He seemed grateful in turn, rubbing his damp hands together and muttering, “I shall, I shall,” before giving a loud holler—a surprisingly aggressive noise—which produced a lanky boy I had not seen before.

“My nephew,” said Mr. Vale. “He will mind things while we are gone.”

This made it seem we were about to set out on a great undertaking, but the nephew did not mind. He merely bowed as we passed into the darkness and wished us goodnight, in a voice even more sibylline than his uncle's; when I looked round he had already slipped behind the reception-desk as though he owned the place.

This little ceremony was so strange, so insignificant in the scheme of things yet so elaborated, I felt I had merely stepped from one kind of confusion to another. Everything I saw seemed larger than life; every behavior was like a performance. And remained so, when we turned out from the stableyard into the street, and found its shopfronts and houses patched with lamplight, each of them showing a little scene of families eating, or men smoking, or grandmothers watching the bustle and traffic of the street. Real people, I kept reminding myself. But everyone just an inch away from the wilderness, and the night-breeze prowling over the empty places, and the moonlight that stretched to infinity.

We had walked only two or three yards when I discovered that Mr. Vale, who had seemed very shy when we first met him in his hotel, became almost as voluble as Boss when he left it. With the acceleration of a man running downhill, and before I could ask any questions of my own, he launched into a history of the town (brief and turbulent, as I hardly needed to be told), of local characters (farmers, cattle-men, precious beauties, rustlers and murderers), of the weather (hot, and sometimes hotter), and of memorable emergencies (fires, mostly), all of which he remembered with equal excitement. And once he had painted the scene in this way he built the frame around it, giving a disquisition on the whole of Texas, and explaining in the year of our Lord 1803 it had been sold by Napoleon to America in the same bundle as the neighboring state of Louisiana, but still contained a great many interested parties from France and Spain, not to mention Indians from tribes living round about, and might therefore be considered a very competitive sort of place, full of large areas of nothing which were apparently valuable to all and sundry.

Such a comprehensive lesson had a curious effect on me, and not just because it was so unexpected. It made me feel that Mr. Vale's strenuous efforts to establish himself in the town, and so become a citizen of the New World by means of hard work, were really a sort of oppression—because they had smothered his true nature, which I now saw was open and easy.

This made me warm to him, despite the great difference in our appearance and age and manners, because he reminded me of myself—of the happiness I had felt with Hoopoe and White Feather, which had diminished as soon as I left them. Although I did not say as much, in my heart I knew I would have preferred to be back with those dear companions, lying under the stars with nothing but their light and the winds of heaven for my covering.

When we came to Cat's Field at last Mr. Vale made me stop still and admire it for a moment. I did not need much encouragement: the field was about fifty yards across, cleared of trees and bushes, and now illuminated by a circle of torches on long stakes that Boss and the others had driven in the ground. I suppose these torches were burning some sort of tar or pitch, for really the whole area was bright as day, only more beautiful because the air had turned a soft yellow, which seemed to gild everything it touched.

The Spectacle sat on top of a platform at the dead center of the ring, like a pupil at the center of an eye, except a pupil is dark and she was glowing in a pure white sugar-puff dress that she had previously kept clean in the wagon. This alone would have made her radiant, but she had also coated the skin of her bald head and bare arms with some kind of glittering powder. Everything strange about her appearance, everything that might have been alarming, was softened and stilled and polished. Now her entire reason for being was to display herself, which she did by no more extravagant means than sometimes turning her head from left to right, and sometimes twisting her body a little, but always with a blank expression on her face, so some new cascade of light was continually pouring across her cheek, or down her neck, or along the exposed skin of her shoulder. As a performance it was next to nothing; as an effect it was wonderful.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” whispered Mr. Vale.

This was too quiet for Boss to hear, but he would have paid no attention in any case. He was prowling to and fro across the ring in a bright red topcoat and silk top hat, holding a riding whip in one hand, occasionally glancing at his beloved in order to feel amazed all over again by her incandescence, but otherwise concentrated on Clown, who wore the same yellow costume and face paint as usual, but had colored his eye-sockets a blacker black, and his nose a redder red, and his mouth a deeper carmine. The two of them were apparently playing a game, a very silly game as it seemed to me, which required Boss to pretend that he meant Clown some harm (by sometimes slashing at him with his whip), which Clown could only escape by apologizing for himself with some ridiculous whining and cowering; his costume was soon coated with dust and his expression so wretched it suggested he was about to be tortured to death like a gladiator.

As for Natty and the Rider: I could see no trace of them at first—although once I had scoured the darkness beyond the lights I found them beside the Wee Man's wagon on the farthest side of the ring, almost lost in shadow. They were leaning together again, with their shoulders touching; although Natty was still dressed in her Indian costume as before, the Rider had equipped himself with a headdress made of long white feathers that swept upward from his brow, then folded into a sort of tail that twisted down his naked back and shone very brightly against the charcoal smeared over his skin.

I told myself there must be a reason for their closeness: they needed to discuss their performance. But the explanation was not good enough—not for such intimacy. I could not look away. I wanted to, but I could not.

Then they broke apart because Boss was tired of making his victim sprawl in the dirt and beg for mercy, and gave a much fiercer snap with his whip. At this, Clown hobbled off and the Rider swung onto the bare back of his pony, riding slowly toward the center of the ring with Natty walking at his side.

It was a very un-theatrical sort of entrance compared to some that I had seen in circuses at home, with no drum rolls or barking from the ringmaster—but the effect was powerful all the same. The Spectacle stopped her writhing; Boss stepped backward and stood on the farther side of Mr. Vale, whose shoulder he gripped in a passion of encouragement; and I—I folded my arms across my chest, and shook my head to clear it of what I had seen, and composed myself to watch.

I thought at first that Natty's job was simply to stand and admire the Rider while he galloped around her. But as she came into a patch of brighter light I saw she was carrying a collection of properties, including a dozen or so wooden rings about a foot across, which she then laid on the ground in a circle within the larger O described by the torches.

When this was done she advanced toward the center of this circle, where I could not help thinking her dark skin and her nimbleness made a pretty contrast with the Spectacle. But if this had been one part of Boss's plan, it was soon made insignificant by another. For once Natty had reached her place, the Rider dug his heels into his pony and began galloping around the perimeter of the ring at top speed.

Remember, all this took place in a very confined area—about fifty yards across, as I say—so the pony had to be very neat in his movements, and the Rider also very handy, which he managed by somehow making himself smaller and more efficient, tucking in his elbows and gripping tightly with his knees. For one or two rotations his whole purpose seemed to be no more than that, to move as fast and tidily as possible, but then he became more ambitious. Letting go of the reins and swooping first to his left and then to his right, he skillfully snatched up all the hoops that Natty had laid on the ground, flinging each one back to her with a whoop so that she could catch them; as she did this she gave a little cry, shaking her head to make her hair swarm around her face.

I have made this business of throwing and catching sound simple; in fact it required an almost miraculous sense of balance, with the Rider seeming really to hang in thin air every time he bent down to pluck a hoop from the ground. And the same when he ran through the rest of his repertoire. First he continued to gallop in a circle while Natty placed the wooden rings back on the ground so that he could fetch them up again—this time on the point of a small spear that she gave him; then he took the reins of his pony in his teeth and climbed onto his back to ride while standing upright; then he sat himself down again, but only to slip off one side, bounce his feet hard on the ground, and leap astride again before doing the same the other side.

I suppose his pony was tired when the Rider had finished all these tricks, and was moving more slowly; this was as well, in view of what happened next, and came as the climax to the whole display. After Natty had passed the Rider a small bow and a quiver full of arrows which he slung around his neck, she returned to the center of the circle where she lifted in front of her face a target painted with brightly colored rings—blue, red and black. While the Rider continued to gallop around the outer limit of the circle, Natty then began to spin on her heels, which allowed the Rider to have the target before him at all times, and to fire his arrows at whatever speed he chose.

This turned out to be as quickly as possible, fitting one arrow to the string of his bow as soon as the last had flown, so for a minute or two the whole area of the ring was continually shot through. It was a wonderful feat of skill, but not one I could enjoy in the least. If Natty had lowered the target even a little she would have been killed; if the Rider had missed his mark—the same result.

For all this, I clapped just as loudly as Boss and the Wee Man and Clown and Mr. Vale, when the performance was finished; and when Natty rested the target on the ground, and showed her face glowing and smiling, the Rider slowed to a trot, and then to a walk, and we gathered together in the center of the ring where Boss lifted the Spectacle down from her platform, and I congratulated everyone on their brilliance, which I said would surely dazzle our audience tomorrow.

The Rider was breathing fast, and when he took off his headdress I noticed his hair was saturated with sweat. He did not reply to me, which I thought showed he was hiding something in his mind. Natty was also short of breath but not so guarded. She pressed her hand to the base of her throat, her eyes wide.

“Did you see?” she asked me.

“I saw.”

“Every one safe and on the target!”

“Every one.”

She did not hear me echo her like this; she had already turned away to fling her arms around the Rider. He closed his eyes, holding her tight and resting his cheek on her hair; how long they stayed like this I cannot say, for I immediately began helping the Wee Man to extinguish the torches around the perimeter of the ring, so we would have enough fuel to light our performance the next day.

Boss came to join us then, which I am sure was meant to comfort me. “We must find a role for you in this little drama,” he said. “Do you not think, Mister Jim? A role of some kind, a role—but you say you are not a shooter after all?”

“No, sir, not, to be truthful.”

“No matter.” His voice was much softer than usual and he laid a hand on my arm. “Something else, then.”

“I should like that, sir,” I replied, without looking at him. “If you think there's anything suitable.”

“I am sure there is.” He took his hand away and placed it in the small of his back, rubbing the base of his spine while he stared into the surrounding darkness. “Now, what can it be? Let me see.”

When we left Cat's Field I already knew how I would spend the next few hours. A sleepless night hearing Natty sneak from her room to the Rider's, or him creeping into hers; a day pretending to be pleased with the Entertainment; an evening smiling at strangers.

But nothing happened as I expected. When I reached my room I heard Natty pause on the landing to say goodnight to one and all, then go to her bed alone; when my head touched the bolster I spent a minute wishing it was more comfortable—or less: that it was bare earth—then dropped into a sound sleep; when I woke again and took myself downstairs to breakfast, I found Boss holding forth to Natty on one side of the table, with the Rider and Clown sitting in silence on the other.

I stared at them, thinking my torments would now surely begin again. But the sight of my friends sitting together like this was a kind of rebuke. I had no evidence for my distrust, no foundation for it. And I knew in my heart I would be wise to end it; if I stayed as I was, I would not be myself; I would be a kind of jailer, locking myself in a prison on my own devising.

For this reason I took my place beside Boss and gave the appearance of being entirely content, asking him whether he had given any further thought to my role, as he called it. He looked nonplussed for a moment, no doubt taken aback by the change in my mood, then collected himself and told me he had, indeed he had, and it would be no ordinary role. It would be a vital role, an indispensable role, because it required me to help Natty with her work in the ring, as she passed the Rider whatever equipment he needed.

In the same enthusiastic way, Boss then announced that as soon as our meal was finished the whole troupe of us would take it upon ourselves to spread the news that we were performing at sunset. I thought this was fair enough, and for the rest of the morning I walked through the streets squawking about the Rider and Clown and the Spectacle, then returned to my room at noon and decided the best use of my time was to go back to sleep. I had started my day with an effort of will, to forget my jealousy. It pleased me to think I could end it by proving this had become a habit.

The next thing I knew, Natty was knocking on my door saying the rest of our party had already left for Cat's Field, and she had stayed behind to walk with me. This was so unexpected I thought it must be a lie; more probably, she had fallen asleep as well, and only now woken. But I was so pleased to see her I did no more than thank her and say we should hurry, and with that we set off as though there had never been any difficulties between us, none at all.

Once we had left what I must call the center of town—which is to say: after we had walked two hundred yards from the hotel, and found ourselves in a much more uneven street, among a large crowd of townsfolk now all drifting in the same direction as ourselves—Mr. Vale caught up with us. Although still very talkative once away from his desk, his purpose this time was not to give another history lesson but to ask some questions.

“You know what is expected of you?” he began.

“Oh yes,” Natty said, apparently determined to be as casual with him as she was with me.

“And you, Mister Jim?” Mr. Vale was walking sideways, blinking under his eye-shade.

“I hope so,” I said, and then, because I thought he was only trying to be friendly, I continued more affably: “We've got the least to do so we have the least to worry about. It's really the Rider who carries most of the burden, as you know.”

This was all said very easily, to remind Natty how much I had done to govern my feelings, and show I had forgiven her.

Mr. Vale quizzed on regardless. “And Boss?” he said. “Is he word perfect?”

“More than anyone,” I said.

“I suppose he must be.”

“The Entertainment is his existence,” added Natty.

“I suppose so,” Mr. Vale said again, and stared through the jostling heads to where our road ended in the field. The torches were already lit, but did not yet seem to burn very brightly, because the last oranges and yellows of the sunset still flared on the scrubland beyond them. I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed its sweet smell of sage. I was almost myself again; I was almost happy.

Natty was more distracted. “What are you saying?” she continued with Mr. Vale. “What do you mean, you suppose so?”

“Nothing,” he said, with a startled little flinch. “Nothing at all.”

“Surely you'd expect nothing less of Boss?”

“Quite so, quite so.”

“What, then?”

I was so struck by Natty's tone I almost interrupted and told her to leave him be. But then Mr. Vale twisted round and faced us directly.

“It is just…” he said.

“It's just what?” Natty came to a halt, ignoring the crowd that pressed around us.

“I have heard stories,” Mr. Vale said.

“What stories?” Natty said.

“Our town is not so large,” he said. “Not so large yet, at any rate. It cannot keep a secret.”

Mr. Vale smiled, but not with any good humor; previously I had thought his wincing only proved his shyness. Now I was not so sure, and my happiness started to shrink away.

“What are you trying to say?” I asked him. “If you have something to tell us, tell us straight out. We won't mind.”

“I fear you may,” he replied. “It is concerning you, after all. Both of you. But especially you, Mister Jim. Especially…” He stretched toward the satchel, which I had forgotten to tuck inside my tunic and so hung around my neck in full view; although his fingers did not connect with my skin, I felt a quick sensation of moisture, as if I had been splashed by a raindrop.

“How do you know what's here?” I asked. “You haven't seen it.”

“No, but I have guessed,” he replied. “It was easy to guess, knowing what I know.”

“Which is?” said Natty, now very impatient.

“They have been asking about you,” Mr. Vale said again.

“Who?” Natty and I said together, although both of us knew the answer already.

“An Indian man. Two Indian men, in fact.”

“Can you describe them?” I asked.

“I have not seen them.”

“But others have?”

“So I believe.”

“And what did they tell you?” Although I tried to speak calmly, so as not to scare Mr. Vale into making any more evasions, he winced as though I had slapped him.

“My informant is a serving man,” he said, suddenly speaking fast. “In a hotel at the opposite end of town. He saw them arrive—a strong-looking man and another, younger. Both Indian and one of them painted all over, face and arms and legs. A wild pair, my informant says, and when another guest in the hotel tried to shoo them away, wilder still. They pushed this gentleman to the ground and stood over him with a knife. They asked if he knew you, and said they would find you, wherever you were, because you had taken something that belongs to them. They would have killed him, if they had not been restrained. Though only restrained for a moment, I should say. They shook everyone off and disappeared.”

“Disappeared where?” I asked.

“I have no idea.” Mr. Vale swallowed. “They asked for you again before they went, Mister Jim. Not by name, but they asked—did anyone know, had anyone seen, was there any news…That. News of that.” He reached toward my satchel again, but still did not touch it.

“And what were they told?” I said, holding my nerve.

“Nothing,” he protested. “My acquaintance had not seen you, and I had not mentioned you. Why would I do that? I run a respectable house. I do not discuss my guests with anyone.”

“But you mentioned others in our party?” As Natty said this she laid a hand on Mr. Vale's shoulder, which made him shrink down between us.

“Others in your party have been mentioned,” he murmured. “It is understandable, is it not? They are unusual. You are all unusual.”

“We're not blaming you, Mr. Vale,” I said. We're trying to know what you know, that's all. So we can decide what to do.”

I said this while staring over his head at Natty, silently asking for her advice.

“We can't leave,” she said, taking my cue.

“You mean we can't leave at all?” I said. “Or we can't leave now?”

“Now. This evening. They need us here. We can't just abandon them.”

“Why not? It's our lives.”

“We can't.”

“It's our decision.”

“We can't.”

I glanced down and saw her fingers had tightened on Mr. Vale's shoulder; as her knuckles whitened he wriggled free. Was she slipping away from me again, turning back to the Rider? Was everything I had been thinking, all the reassurance I had given myself—was it just foolishness?

“Shall we walk on?” Mr. Vale asked. He was suddenly much more composed, as if he had begun to enjoy our discomfort and not feel frightened by it.

“We are still deciding,” I told him, then looked at Natty again. I knew what she would say next, and tried to head her off.

“There'll still be enough tricks if we're not there,” I told her. “They don't need us. They managed before they met us and they'll manage again.”

“But not the best trick,” she said. “Not the trick with the arrows.”

“No one will miss what they've never seen before.”

Natty shook her head; she was also more like herself again, more settled and determined. “Don't you feel we owe a debt to Boss?” she said. “He took us in, after all.”

“We chose to join him,” I reminded her, then paused because I was about to speak his name. “And anyway—what if Black Cloud comes to the show and sees us? What if they both do?”

“They can't hurt us there,” said Natty. “We're among friends and they'll defend us.”

“But we've seen how dangerous he is.”

“It's two men,” she came back. “Two against the whole lot of us. And the crowd.”

“The crowd won't care,” I said. “And anyway, have you forgotten what those two are like? They're cold-blooded murderers, Natty. They're savages.”

Natty shook her head. She could not forget the Rider; she would not leave him now.

I turned away from her then; I did not want to hear her stubbornness any more, or her excitement. I looked instead at the strangers still trooping past us, the families herding together, and the children running ahead, then back. One of them, a little fellow half my age who was missing a front tooth, broke off his conversation with a friend and asked me: was I all right? Did I need any help?

I told him no, and thanked him, and turned back to Natty. “Very well,” I said heavily. “But this is your decision, not mine.”

Natty sighed. “Sometimes, Jim,” she muttered, folding her arms.

“Sometimes what?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“You know I only want to keep you safe.”

“I understand that.”

“What, then?”

“If you don't know now, you'll never know.” Natty seemed about to speak some more, then changed her mind and marched away to the end of the street, where the lights of Cat's Field simplified her into a silhouette. Here I caught up with her and was about to continue asking her what she meant when Mr. Vale arrived.

“Off you go now,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “You have nothing to fear. I shall be your eyes. Your ears and eyes both.”

I did not answer, dismayed to think my life might depend on someone so fickle and insinuating. Instead, I grabbed Natty by the hand and half-dragged, half-raced her to the edge of the field.

“There you are, my dears, there you are!” Boss shouted as we came into the light, and his racket ended our talk. “We have been looking for you everywhere, thinking every conceivable sort of thing must have befallen you. Stage fright, perhaps. Or spirited away! But no, here you are safe and sound. Safe and sound. Beguiling the time, I dare say, following the trails of whim and fancy! But with us now as promised—our latest recruits!”

When this outburst ended he flung out his arms and embraced us both, squeezing my face so hard against his red coat I felt the buttons scrape my skin. If there had been a moment to think properly, I should have said we were sorry, and warned him about Black Cloud, but Boss rattled on as soon as he released us, and I knew I would never divert him now. He was on the brink of his triumph; he was unstoppable.

“Here!” he boomed, like a cannon firing. “Here you will both be a part of our celebration. A great and glorious part. A part of our creation of civilization, I should say. Our creation of the finest Entertainment in America. Perhaps of the only Entertainment in America!”

This last word—“America!”—turned into a bellow that brought a loud cheer from the crowd. “First in America!” Boss shouted again, in case anyone had missed it. “Finest in America!” And when he felt sure that everyone had indeed heard, and agreed, he gave a deep bow and apologized for whisking us away, but business called, business called, and a moment later we were off through the crowd and across the circle of lights and among the rest of our friends again, with the Wee Man lounging against the tailgate of his wagon. Was everything ready? Boss wanted to know without drawing breath. Was everything perfect?

Natty and I left him to his questions, and still not speaking to one another we faded into the shadows on the farther side of the wagon, where we found the Rider standing by himself, already wearing the headdress he had used during his rehearsal. He had wiped all the charcoal off his body, and was decorated with two white streaks on his cheekbones.

“You are here,” he said.

“Ready and willing,” said Natty, and gave a little smile; she had forgotten her anger the moment she saw him.

“And late,” he told her, which was more peremptory than I expected.

Had he already heard something about Black Cloud; was that why he spoke so sharply? I chose not to ask. As Natty put on her headdress, which was a single white feather standing up from the headband, and he stood close to her to straighten it, I looked away into the distance to watch the sun sink at last—a final blaze of gold and purple. Then the Rider stepped back from Natty and we faced the crowd together.