Foreward
Welcome to The Circus of Brass and Bone. This story is made available on a pay-what-you-can basis. Make a donation to help keep it going. All proceeds go to help cover my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer.

Now settle back and enjoy the circus. It's the end of civilization, but the show...must go on.

Episode 7

A Stranger Comes to Town

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Christopher* was hungry enough that the hardtack crackers were starting to look good.* Morning light filtered through chinks in the wall. He heard people and animals moving around. But Ginger hadn't come back yet.

He pressed his mouth to a crack and hissed, "Hey, Ginger! Could somebody get--"

The secret panel unlocked with a click. He pulled back barely in time to get out of the way before it opened. Ginger* stood there, glowering.

"Sorry," Christopher said. "I--I thought you were going to let me out earlier. I thought you'd forgotten me or been caught." He climbed out of the dark hidey-hole and stretched. The bright blue morning sky arched above him. A brisk autumn wind ruffled dark red maple leaves. The smokey smell of the cook's fire wafted on the breeze to him. It all seemed new and precious.

"Fugitives in hiding tend to come out for breakfast," Ginger told him. "A smart hunter always checks back in the morning."

Christopher tensed. "They're here?"

Ginger shrugged. "They aren't smart hunters. I didn't think they would be."

"So you kept me locked up for nothing?"

"Ah!" Ginger raised three fingers. "Rule Number 3: Never underestimate your audience. If they had come back, they wouldn't have found you. Now you're going back in your hiding place until I'm absolutely certain it's safe. Be quiet in there. No calling my name." He paused. "I'll bring you a plate of eggs later."

"Sorry," Christopher mumbled.

"What are you planning to do today?"

"I need to rescue my friend."

"And after that? Will you two hide until we're out of town?"

Christopher frowned. "I can't just walk away, knowing that they'll keep doing this to other people. That's not right."

"Oh, I have a plan for that." Ginger smiled a smile with sharper edges than Christopher would expect from such a mild-mannered man.

"What plan?"

"Can you shoot? --Well, never mind, I have explosive charges that will do the job. Rule Number 4: Keep extra explosives on hand. You never know when they'll be useful."

#

Dr. Janzen* found the other circus members to be strangely quiet over breakfast. He didn't mind. When in his circus persona, The Great Doctor Panjandrum, he unreeled an amazing spiel. The rest of the time, Dr. Janzen enjoyed silence and the ability to observe but say nothing.

This morning, he observed that several people's appetites were diminished. The group lacked the conviviality typical of a rest day. Only Ginger the clown seemed unaffected.*

At least nobody complained about odd noises coming from his wagon the night before, Dr. Janzen thought. The pillow and feed sack must have provided adequate insulation. Or perhaps the circusfolk were distracted by the men who'd visited during the night.

"Did everyone sleep well?" he asked. He certainly hadn't, but what was their excuse? They remained in blessed ignorance.

They stared at him as if an ostrich had talked.

"Quite well, thank you!" Ginger said cheerily.

"Excellent. Won't a couple of days rest be welcome? Seeing new faces?"

"They're just ordinary folks, and we'll be treating them as such," Ginger said firmly.

"Certainly, but--"

"I can't stomach this," the knife-thrower interrupted harshly, standing up and stalking away.

Dr. Janzen made a mental note to keep an eye on the knife-thrower. His reaction must be due to delayed shock from the attack yesterday. If it persisted, it might be a cause for concern.

"Is anyone going into Seppanen Town?" the midget's wife* asked. "I need a couple of things from the dry goods store, but I don't trust myself to act all nice."

Female troubles, Dr. Janzen diagnosed but didn't say. Women were touchy about such things. "I'd be happy to make your purchases for you," he said. "I'm planning on walking into town to consult with Mrs. Della Rocca*, as a fellow medicine practitioner." He hoped nobody would ask about what; he didn't wish to alarm them unnecessarily.

Her lip curled. "Voluntarily? You doctors are cold-blooded."

Dr. Janzen looked around and found disapprobation on every face except for Ginger's.

"Did you skip supper?" Ginger asked.

Dr. Janzen blinked at the non sequitor. "Why, yes. I was--working."

Understanding dawned on the faces around him.

"I thought that must be it, since you're eating your eggs so heartily!" Ginger said. "Cook's pork and beans didn't ruin your appetite. You sure missed something."

"I'm sorry for snarling," the female midget said. "I--" She cast about for the right words.

Dr. Janzen held his hand out before she resorted to indelicacy. "Don't worry about it, dear lady. I understand your condition entirely." He lowered his voice and murmured, "If it's particularly bad, I may be able to prescribe a dose of laudanum."

Her eyebrows went up. "Thank you," she said in a constricted voice.

"Come to think of it, Doctor," Ginger said, "you may be the best man to discuss trading for supplies with Mrs. Della Rocca. Nothing in Seppanen Town happens without her say-so, and since you hope to speak with her anyway. . . ."

"But I've never--"

"The supply master's still recovering from being hit in the head," Ginger said. "He's subject to spells of confusion."

"Well, yes, but--"

"You'll have more of a friendly relationship with her than the rest of us could. Collegial. And you won't actually be trading, just finding out who's willing to trade what and for how much."

#

Dr. Janzen found himself in front of Mrs. Della Rocca's boarding house still not entirely sure exactly when he'd agreed to act as the circus' emissary. Still, he did need to speak with her. It made sense to talk trade at the same time.

Mrs. Della Rocca answered his knock wearing a fresh apron and a harried smile. "Good morning!" She squinted. "Are you with the circus?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm the circus doctor, actually, and I was hoping that--"

"You must have come to retrieve your sleepwalker! Sleepwalkers. I confess I was afraid that my little flock was going to grow even larger!"

"Your flock? Sleepwalkers? I don't--"

A child's shout interrupted him. "It's bubbling over!"

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Della Rocca said. "Come in, come in--I have to take care of this!" She dashed kitchenward.

Dr. Janzen followed at a more dignified pace. When he entered the kitchen, he found her lifting a massive pot of bubbling porridge off the stove, her apron skirt wrapped around the hot handle. Pop! went the porridge, and an oatmeal splat landed on her pristine apron.

"Drat," she said, looking down. The children giggled.

The children. Almost a dozen children perched in her kitchen, sitting on stools, leaning against the counter, or sitting on the floor. Dr. Janzen studied Mrs. Della Rocca's "flock." They ranged in age from toddlers to youths almost old enough to strike out on their own. Their faces glowed with fresh-scrubbed health and their eyes were bright. Some of their clothing was thin to the point of translucency, but hand-stitched patches covered any holes. A couple of the children were on the scrawny side, but their faces weren't hollow with need.

Every child held a thin sliver of pumpkin pie. He noticed that Mrs. Della Rocca was not having a piece of pie herself; it was all for the children. A treat. A row of porridge bowls on the kitchen table would hold the main course. The bandages and medical supplies had vanished overnight.

A familiar light laugh brought his attention to the corner of the room. A redheaded boy of about thirteen, who must be in the middle of a growth spurt, blocked his view. Dr. Janzen leaned forward. Two familiar faces smiled back at him: the conjoined sisters, Roxane and Betty Murray. One was blonde, the other brunette. Both were pretty enough, setting aside the jointure that left the freak show as their best option for supporting themselves in life. They gave their age as sixteen, but their small stature made them seem closer to twelve. Their act played that up, and so they wore the ruffles and braids of younger girls. He understood why Mrs. Della Rocca thought them children.

Roxane Murray ate her piece of pie daintily but with every evidence of pleasure. Betty took a bite and then set hers down on the counter she leaned against. The redheaded boy eyed the pie and sidled a bit closer.

"Sleepwalkers?" Dr. Janzen asked Mrs. Della Rocca.

She shrugged. "I came downstairs this morning to find them in my kitchen. Both of them were genuinely asleep. I'm certain of that."

"Thank you for finding them, but I came here to discuss--" he glanced around, "--medical matters not for tender ears. And to gain your advice on acquiring supplies," he added, as an afterthought.

"Hey!" the redheaded boy complained. "Where did that piece of pie go?"

Roxane turned to him. "It wasn't your pie!"

In the lull that followed, the only sound was the happy smacking of lips.

"And no, they're not all my children," Mrs. Della Rocca said. "I'm sure you were wondering. Some of their parents were townsfolk who died in the storm. Some of them wandered in on the road. They were half-starved! They stay in my boarding house now, and I take care of them. We must protect the children and make sure they have enough food," she said fiercely. "No matter what it takes. Without the children, we have no future."

"Commendable. Er, the circus has children to take care of, too. Who would you recommend we talk to about buying food supplies?" Dr. Janzen asked awkwardly. "We have money enough."

"Paper money? You might as well use it like the Sears catalog*. Some farmers might sell you supplies in exchange for hard coin. Try Farmer Johnson. He's got a lot of good windfall apples but not enough hands to gather them." She shook her head. "Food is tight, though. We need enough to last us through the winter and to feed our children. But we don't have hands enough to bring in the harvest." She sighed. "If there even is a crop to harvest."

"What do you mean?"

"Our crops are dying. Unpredictably. We just started harvesting potatoes, but many of the plants are hardly edible. They're shriveled, twisted things. We can't tell which are ruined until we dig them all up. Sometimes just the leaves are shriveled, sometimes the whole plant."

"And some are normal," Dr. Janzen continued. "And some--are some unusually large?"

"Yes!" She smiled. "They don't make up for the bad ones, but they help."

He glanced around. "That's what I wanted to speak with you about. Not in front of the children, though." He gave her a meaningful look.

"Once they've had their breakfast, I'll send them out. As far as buying food goes," she shook her head, "you're on your own. The dry goods store doesn't have much. Mostly we barter food with each other. A bushel of apples for six pumpkins. Like that. I make sure that even those who don't have anything worth bartering still get a little food. Nobody in Seppanen Town will starve if I can help it." She squared her shoulders. "But the circus isn't part of Seppanen Town."

"The children must come first," Dr. Janzen murmured. The town was lucky to have such a determined champion. That didn't get food in the bellies of circusfolk, though. "More food than you can harvest," he said musingly. "Wasting food in these times is a sin. Can we harvest what would otherwise go to waste?"

Her eyes sharpened with interest. "That doesn't benefit us if you keep everything you gather. We might yet be able to bring in the harvest ourselves, if we can get more labor from travelers passing through."

"So we only keep part of our take. What's a fair percentage?"

A tow-headed little boy tugged on Mrs. Della Rocca's skirt, holding up an empty bowl. "Please, ma'am, may I have some more?"

"Just a little bit, Oliver. We have to share." She dolloped out another ladle of porridge. Then she tilted her head, considering Dr. Janzen. "I understand that sharecroppers would usually keep half," she said dubiously.

"Done!"

She looked a bit regretful, as if she should have named a lower amount. To distract her, Dr. Janzen said, "Not much sharecropping up here. Have you lived in the South?"

"I worked as a nurse in Fredericksburg, during the War and a bit after. I met my husband there." Her eyes softened. "But it wasn't to be. And you? Where were you during the war?"

"Chattanooga."

"Did you know Dr. Mary Walker*? An eccentric, to be sure, but also a fine doctor and a gallant lady."

"I--mostly dealt with the dead," he temporized, remembering the terrible softening of the limbs that occurred as the dead settled into their new state. It was worse, somehow, when he didn't have to fight to strip the corpses of their soiled clothes. The yielding flesh was too lifelike, so that he almost believed he bathed and wrapped and boarded living men into coffins. When he had nightmares of the dead, he woke with the imprint of that feeling still lingering on his fingertips.

"Can our people start harvesting today?" he asked, pushing away the memory. "We'll trade for what we can, but from what you say, I doubt that will be enough."

She answered with a quickness that hinted she had nightmares of her own to banish. "Yes. We need more hands in the potato field to bring the crop in. You can start there."

He waited in silence while the children finished scraping the last bit of porridge out of their bowls. As soon as they were done, Mrs. Della Rocca shooed them outside to go help in the fields.

Dr. Janzen tilted his head to indicate that the conjoined sisters should wait outside too. Betty blinked at him, but Roxane nodded and whispered in her sister's ear. As they passed, Dr. Janzen noticed a smear of pumpkin pie on the back of their dress, but it didn't seem to be the moment to comment.

"I apologize for making you wait," Mrs. Della Rocca said to him, once the last child had stacked its bowl in her washing basin and left, "but a few of these children went hungry for so long that, if I don't watch them, they'll bolt their food and then get sick later."

"Your concern is admirable."

"I do what I can, and the devil take the hindmost." She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. "What did you want to talk to me about that couldn't be discussed in front of the children?" she asked, as she began to tidy up the kitchen.

"We were attacked before we reached your town."

"Oh?" She moved over to the stove.

"One of the men died during the attack. When I performed the autopsy, I discovered some disturbing signs that may explain why they attacked us."

She lifted a heavy cast iron skillet from the stove top and walked toward him. "Did you tell anyone else about it before you came here?"

He shook his head. "No. I didn't want to alarm them unnecessarily. But you have a medical background, and even more importantly, you were on the front lines during the War."

She stopped in front of him. "What does that have to do with it?" she asked, running one hand over the curve of the frying pan.

"Did you ever treat any of the Confederacy's Grey Steel regiment? The ones who had been taking bone aether for too long, or in too high of a dose?"

She paled. "Yes. But that can't have anything to do with the--bandits. The Union banned the military use of bone aether and destroyed the war harnesses."

"Surely they missed a few. Something so valuable, so dangerous--people would keep it in case of need. Bury it in the back yard. Or maybe a clever person could jury-rig something similar up from an old slave harness. Those are still legal, even if slavery isn't."

"I don't think it would be that simple."

"Are you certain you didn't bring home a souvenir from your time in the South? Something you thought you'd never use, but now, with everything so unsettled and a town to protect--"

"I would never! Those things are abominations." Her chest heaved as she glared at him. Her knuckles whitened on the skillet handle.

Dr. Janzen looked at her with grave eyes. "I wish you had. When I performed the autopsy, I found symptoms of an overabundance of bone aether that, given time, would have led to full manifestation."

"But a war harness--"

"I don't think he had access to a war harness. I suspect the freak storm excited his bone aether." He paused. "I've observed early symptoms in other people. Muscle aches, nervous energy in one or more limbs, spasms. . . ."

The cast iron skillet slipped from numb fingers and crashed to the floor. "Oh, merciful God," she whispered.

#

"Good day, Doctor-sahib. And Missies," the Indian mahout* greeted them as they returned. He sat cross-legged on the ground at the edge of camp. "Missies are going for walk? I did not see you leave."

"They sleepwalked," Dr. Janzen answered. "Fortunately, they ended up safely in Mrs. Della Rocca's kitchen."

"For the pumpkin pie, yes?"

"How did you know?"

"I hear one of them say, 'Pie' when we visit Mrs. Della Rocca's kitchen. They are dreaming of it, yes?"

"Er, yes, I suppose." Dr. Janzen vaguely recalled seeing the mahout in the kitchen. He must have been standing way in the back.

"And now Missie has her pie." The mahout smiled to himself. "Everybody dreams."

Dr. Janzen nodded, though his dreams were not ones he cared for.

Roxane Murray said, "Goodbye, Doctor. We want to go rest in our wagon."

Betty added, "We're tired after we sleepwalk."

"Do you sleepwalk often?" Dr. Janzen asked, concerned.

"Hardly ever," Roxane answered. "It won't happen again."

"Not soon," Betty said.

"Are you alright?" Dr. Janzen asked.

They nodded in unison, but they wouldn't meet his eyes. He let them go.

When Dr. Janzen knocked on the door of the supply wagon, the supply master poked his head out and blinked over his spectacles at him. "Yes? Why are you back so soon? I knew I should have gone to negotiate! How much money will it take for us to get supplied?"

Dr. Janzen shook his head. "They won't take fractional currency*. How much do we have in coin?"

The supply master scowled. "Enough. Barely."

"I heard that the equestrienne brought back money from her visit to the mayor of Boston. Was it all paper money?"

"I think so. You'd have to ask her--she squirreled it away somewhere. To keep any of us from getting ideas, I suppose. Only gave me a count." He scowled. "Heaven only knows if it's right. Oh, I'm not saying she'd steal any! But untrained people...."

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to spend all our money here--"

"Of course it's not," Madame Wershow* interrupted, as she emerged from the shadows of the wagon.

Dr. Janzen started, but controlled his reaction quickly. He should be used to the fortune teller's habit of appearing out of thin air by now, though how she managed it with all her rings and brooches and necklaces was beyond him.

"This is a small farming town that will survive the winter well if they can get the harvest in," she said. "It will be worse in New York, much worse. You're sure they won't take paper?"

Dr. Janzen shook his head. "According to Mrs. Della Rocca, only if they need paper for the outhouse. They're short-handed, however, and so--"

The supply master snorted with disgust. "I bet they are, those lousy--"

"Let him finish," Madame Wershow interrupted.

Dr. Janzen cleared his throat. "Ah, because they're short-handed, they're willing to trade food for labor. Mrs. Della Rocca said that food would go unharvested, so I asked if we could gather the gleanings. Any hands we can spare are welcome, and they'll let us keep half of what we reap from their fields."

"An excellent idea," Madame Wershow said. "I'll pass the word--and make sure everyone know that any food they bring home had better go directly to the supply master and not to their own wagon."

"They must be desperate!" the supply master said. "What if we talk to the folks they've kidnapped?"

Dr. Janzen stopped cold. "What?"

Madame Wershow sighed. "I suppose you won't need to deal with Mrs. Della Rocca again, so there's no need to keep you in ignorance. Seppanen Town has been kidnapping travelers and forcing them to work in the fields. One escaped last night and fled here."

"The men and the dogs," Dr. Janzen said. "Last night. That's what they were looking for. But--"

"Mrs. Della Rocca welcomes visitors. Then she drugs them, and they wake up enslaved."

"She's a good woman!" he protested. "She wouldn't do that! She's providing for a dozen orphans, herself...." He trailed off as he recalled her speech. "A dozen orphans she'd do anything to protect."

Madame Wershow nodded. He fancied he detected sympathy in the set of her shoulders, but the veil made it impossible to tell.

"The bandages on her table," he said slowly. "Those were there on our first visit, but not this morning. It doesn't make sense to keep your medical supplies out like that. And--that basin of bloody water. That wasn't from cleaning meat. She'd been seeing to the wounded. Those men who attacked the supply wagon, they weren't bandits at all!"

"Only as much as the whole town is," Madame Wershow said. "And now you understand. Make sure the ticket taker knows not to accept fractional currency. If it's worthless to them, it's worthless to us. I'll tell the rest of the circus that now we're farmers, too."

Dr. Janzen nodded and left. When he found the wizened old ticket taker, he told him, "Don't accept paper money. The people in this town think it's worthless--and they might be right, soon enough. Coin or food only."

"Food?" the old man squawked. "How do I know what a potato's worth? How much 'change' do I give back for a chicken? Half an egg!?"

"Er, um." Dr. Janzen floundered. "Charge one meal's worth of food."

The old man squinted at him. "Is it a meal for somebody who's really hungry, or for somebody who's not so hungry?"

"Use your best judgment!"

#

Lindsay Kleinman wiped down her bar top with a wet rag. Her dark hair fell forward and she pushed it back with a wince. The motion sent an ache through her arms. She'd worked a dawn-to-dusk shift in the fields for the last five days straight, and now she had a half-day off. A sane woman would be sleeping, but here she was, opening her saloon even though it was too early for most anyone to be drinking. She'd worked hard to open her own saloon, and she'd be damned if a minor inconvenience like the end of the world was going to make her give it up. At least she had one customer. One of the circusfolk had stopped in, a bland-looking man who sat at the edge of the bar.

She looked up when the saloon doors swung open. A stranger walked in, his long duster billowing around him. He wore his hat pulled down low, but she saw a long puckered scar running down his cheek.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine," the stranger said in a low, gravelly voice. He sat down at the bar and fixed her with an unnervingly cold gaze. "A young man, average tall, brown hair, easygoing. He would have said he was a salesman."

"Wh--what do you mean, he would have said he was a salesman?" She was so intent on the stranger that she ignored the bland-looking man--one of the circus people--who struck a match to light his cigarette and then leaned across the bar and turned one of the bottles to read the label.

The stranger didn't answer. "Our boss expected him back two weeks ago. Have you seen him?"

Lindsay cleared her throat. "No, no, I haven't. Sorry I can't help you, sir, but here--have a drink on the house! Strangers drink free."

"I don't like alcohol." The stranger stood to go.

She drew a breath in relief when he reached the door. Then the stranger paused and looked over his shoulder. "And I don't like the color blue."

He pushed back his duster. When the stranger's coat opened, Lindsay glimpsed the shine of a badge she recognized. The stranger pulled his pistol in a move so fast and smooth that Lindsay knew if this man wanted to kill her, she was a goner. He was a Pinkerton, and nobody stood against them--at least not for long. She ducked behind the bar with no thought of going after her own gun.

Bang! An alcohol bottle exploded. She flattened herself to the ground and threw her arms over her head. Another bottle. Then another. Glass shards rained down behind the bar. Lindsay kept her head covered and hoped she wasn't whimpering aloud.

The bang!, the sharp crack of breaking bottles, the tinkling glass. The sounds echoed in her ears long after the shots stopped. When she uncovered her head and gingerly pushed herself up, she saw she was surrounded by a sea of blue glass shards. She looked up at the rack of booze behind the bar. Every shot had shattered a blue bottle, and every blue bottle had been shot. Nothing else was touched.

"Oh, God, we have Pinkertons in town," she whispered.

#

Two houses away, Christopher braced his back against the outhouse wall, his hands on his knees as he breathed deeply.

"What did I tell you?" Ginger said. "Show them a pistol apparently shooting, and bottles exploding, and they fill in the rest. Last night, I even added spent bullets to the explosive squibs. When they look through the wreckage, they'll find bullets."

"And the fuse?"

"Burned so fast it would barely scorch the wood. Even if they notice a little mark they won't know what it is."

"I thought I would fumble the pistol for sure!" Christopher gasped.

Ginger clapped him on the shoulder. "Not after all that practice. You had it four out of five times."

"And the fifth time didn't worry you?"

"I needed to see how you handle yourself under stress. Some people cave. Other people sharpen. You sharpened." Ginger smiled. "Always know how the person you're working with will react."

"Let me guess, that's Rule Number 6 of being a clown?"

"Rule Number 5, actually. Rule Number 6 is to keep track of your numbers."

Christopher laughed. Adrenaline made it shaky. "I'm surprised she didn't just shoot me."

"You flashed the badge. Townies don't want to shoot a Pinkerton. All killing a Pinkerton gets you is another, angrier Pinkerton. They won't risk that. They're civilians."

"And we're not?"

"Us? Why, we're clowns!" He clapped Christopher on the shoulder. "You're circus now, and we watch out for our own! If anybody had made a move in your direction, I would have taken care of it."

Christopher shrugged it off with a laugh, but he couldn't help feeling a little warmth. After so long on his own, being part of something was--well, it was really something, that's what.

#

I'm back to being slave labor, Christopher thought, two hours later. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the exertion of digging up potato mounds*. He prayed the sweat wouldn't loosen his magnificent false mustache or wash off the walnut stain that darkened his skin.

He sank his spading fork under a potato mound* and heaved the plant up. He shook the dirt from it. This time, all the potatoes were good. A monstrous beetle buzzed up from the field, landed on a potato, and chomp! chomp! chomp! Half the potato disappeared. Christopher struck the beetle, knocking it off. It buzzed angrily, but retreated.

"Insects grow big around here," he muttered.

Without farm animals, the harvesting went slow. At least he wasn't alone. Around him, circusfolk and townsfolk alike worked the field. A skinny circus roustabout worked on one side of Christopher, and Dr. Janzen on the other.* Mrs. Della Rocca herself worked, though Christopher tried not to look at her. He didn't want her to sense the hostility in his gaze. Even the town's captives worked, though somehow there were always townsfolk between them and the circus people. Clara sat on a rock at the edge of the field, her shotgun across her knees. The circus people had been told she was there to protect them from bandits, or wild animals. They'd all nodded like they believed it.

Even the children worked, depending on their age and inclination. One small boy picked a wildflower from the edge of the field and ran to Mrs. Della Rocca. He held the flower up. She took it with a smile and bent to hug him and plant a kiss on his forehead.

Christopher noticed Dr. Janzen watching with a smile on his face.

"He's not her child," Christopher told him. "His mother was a refugee from New York. She made it all the way here on her own, but when she reached Seppanen Town, a nice woman gave her soup and a bed and she woke up indentured. Field labor didn't suit her. She died soon after."

Dr. Janzen's smile vanished. Christopher moved on to the next potato mound. And he watched.

He watched as his captive friend Francis* left the field for the third time to bring Clara* a cup of cold spring water. She smiled appreciatively and set aside her shotgun as she took the cup. After she finished the water, she handed the cup back to Francis and their fingers touched. When she grimaced and pressed her hand against her belly, bending forward, Francis--hovered. There was no other word for it. When Clara relaxed again, he took her arm and led her to a fallen log at the base of a tree. She sat and leaned back against the tree trunk with a sigh. Then he went back and brought her her shotgun.

Christopher had seen enough. Time for the second part of his job here--or the third part, if he counted actually harvesting potatoes.

"Who's that?" he shouted. "There! I saw a man in the woods!" He pointed to a perfectly innocuous section of trees.

The other harvesters stopped working. Clara pushed herself up laboriously and swung the shotgun around to point in the direction he'd indicated.

"I don't see anything," a buxom woman with her hair tied back in a kerchief grumbled.

From behind them came the distinctive sound of a lever-action rifle chambering a round.

They swung around. On the edge of the field stood a stranger with greasy, shoulder-length black hair and his hat pulled low. He shifted, and a stray beam of sunlight gleamed off the badge pinned to his long duster.

"Pinkerton," Mrs. Della Rocca said damningly.

"We're looking for our man," the stranger called. "He would have passed through as a traveling salesman. If he came to misfortune in this town, you will all regret it. Your best bet is to release him unharmed."

"I wish I could," Mrs. Della Rocca muttered. Christopher thought she didn't realize she'd said it aloud.

The stranger backed away, stepped behind a particularly large oak tree--and vanished.

Everyone waited. He didn't reappear.

"Where did he go?" Mrs. Della Rocca asked. "Find him!"

The townsfolk scattered into the woods. Christopher scooped his share of the potatoes he'd harvested into a burlap sack and returned to the circus campground.

He headed across camp toward the supply wagon, carrying his quarter-full sack of potatoes. Were the potatoes all he'd gained, it would have been a poor reward for several hours' work.

He passed the snake charmer* as she hung out her laundry on a line stretched between her wagon and a nearby tree. Lots of filmy, silky things, including her unmentionables. She saw him looking and winked. He sighed inwardly, regretting his lost career as a traveling salesman. She was just the type he could have persuaded to buy the expensive mother-of-pearl brush and comb set.

The equestrienne* trotted by, exercising her horse. Now, she didn't seem to be the type for fancy brushes, unless they were horse brushes. Not much interest in the feminine fripperies or in gussying-up for a man. Christopher was respectful in his manner and nice-enough looking that he usually got a second glance from ladies. Not her.

The cook boiled dirty dishes in a cauldron of water. As he scraped food off with a long wooden paddle, he muttered about the ingratitude of the people who could have been helping him do this. Christopher hurried past.

The Indian mahout sat on the steps of his wagon, watering his glossy-leaved oleander plant* and turning it to face the sun. Then he reclined with a slim volume in his hand. When the mahout saw Christopher approaching, he set the book to the side and folded his limbs into an unnatural position. He pressed his palms together and closed his eyes. Christopher had seen pictures of Indian fakirs* in that same pose. Something to do with their religion, he thought. He glanced at the mahout's book as he passed. Aetheric Engineering, Volume I. He noticed the mahout hadn't felt compelled to volunteer for harvesting duty, unlike most able-bodied folks who weren't busy at another job.

Ginger waited for him in front of the supply wagon. Hat, duster, and black wig gone, Ginger appeared once more to be his unremarkable self.

"How did you disappear like that?" he asked Ginger, as he deposited his meager haul of potatoes inside the supply wagon.

Ginger grinned. "Rule Number 7 of how to be a clown: Nobody ever looks up."

"You climbed a tree? How is that a rule for being a clown?"

Ginger smiled slyly. "Why, being a . . . clown is all about knowing how to distract people. Part of that's being the big, shiny thing in the center of the ring. And part of that's knowing where people don't usually look."

"So what's next?"

"Did you watch your friend?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He won't want to leave," Christopher admitted. "He's sparking* Clara, though she hasn't figured it out yet."

"And so?"

"You can only make a person do what they're willing to do," Christopher said slowly. "And he's not willing to leave."

"Rule Number 2: Always--"

"--know how your audience will react," Christopher finished. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. "He's happier here. So what now?"

"One of the most important parts of being a clown is entertaining the children," Ginger said.

"Oh, yes?" Christopher asked suspiciously. This sounded like it actually pertained to being a clown. He didn't trust it.

"Rule Number 8 of being a clown: Win children's trust." Ginger smiled. "You need to practice."

"I do?"

"Oh, yes. Why don't you go to Mrs. Della Rocca's boarding house this afternoon and--collect--the younger children. Bring them here. At a small stop like this, the circus will only set up the freaks, the menagerie, and the Museum of Educational Novelties. No acts or performances, but it's still more than this town's ever seen. The children will love it, and you'll get good practice."

"Do you think Mrs. Della Rocca will give her permission?"

"I happen to know that she's planning on touring all the fields this afternoon. Following up on those mysterious sightings of strange men in the woods, I daresay."

"Should I leave a note?"

"Of course! Something along the lines of, 'Return our man,' would be appropriate."

"You don't want me wearing a clown costume when I take the children, I'm guessing?"

"Now you're catching on!" Ginger snapped his fingers. "The Pinkerton with the scar should do nicely--unless you think we need another stranger. Probably not. We've already got them jumping at shadows in the fields. Take the children, entertain them out of sight for about an hour, and then bring them to the circus. Let Mrs. Della Rocca start to fret. Then I'll tell her where her children are."

"Wait--you don't want them as hostages to get her to stop kidnapping people?"

Ginger waved a hand. "Hostages are so much trouble. Far better to take your enemy's mind hostage. Let their fears do all the work."

#

Dressed as just another circus roustabout who'd been working in the fields all day, Ginger headed to the saloon, burlap sack in hand. He bellied up to the bar and reached into the sack, a move that made the dark-haired saloon keeper tense up. She reached a hand under the bar. Concealed shotgun, he guessed. Yes, he and the new kid had made the townsfolk plenty nervous. He let the smile show as he pulled out a potato and plunked it down.

"Can I trade that for a whiskey?" he asked.

"Two potatoes," she answered matter-of-factly.

Ginger nodded and pulled out another one. When he got his drink, he retired to a table by the window with a good view of Mrs. Della Rocca's boarding house.

He'd sipped his way through half his whiskey by the time she came back from the fields. She went into the house. Lamps flared to life. Minutes later she dashed back out, looking around frantically. She shouted, waited, and shouted again. She stormed off down the street.

Ginger sipped. A quarter of a whiskey glass later, she returned, shoulders sagging. She sat on the steps and buried her face in her hands. Almost there, Ginger judged. Eventually, she pushed herself to her feet and plodded back into the house.

Ginger sipped the rest of his drink at the same slow pace and then got up and left. In a dark alley, he pulled the wig, the duster, and the badge out of his burlap sack. He tucked the empty sack into a corner and walked across to Mrs. Della Rocca's boarding house. He knocked politely and smiled when she answered the door.

She stared at him. Her knuckles whitened around the door edge. "Where--are--they?" she hissed.

"I am sorry about that misunderstanding, ma'am," he said. "The children are fine. My partner returned them to a safe place before he left. Our missing man was sighted in New York--the messenger found us just a little bit ago. My partner's tracking the lead. I'm to head West."

"So nobody's expecting you?"

"Not for months."

She glued a smile on. "Please, come in. Sit down. Have some biscuits and tea and we can talk."

She busied herself in the kitchen and then returned with a mug of tea and a biscuit for him. She sat down opposite. He noticed she didn't get refreshments for herself.

"Where are the children?" she asked, in a controlled voice.

"The circus," he told her. "My partner wanted to avoid a confrontation. He figured they'd be safe there and they'd enjoy themselves. He bought the tickets."

"So now you'll go and leave our little town in peace." She stretched her smile. "You haven't tried your biscuit yet."

He picked it up. "Well, I'll leave you in peace. Of course, since we've got an operation nearby, our men--and women--will be passing through right regular-like. Mostly in disguise as ordinary travelers. I'll check in with our operation headquarters before I go, to make sure they know everything's fine here now."

She lunged across the table and batted the biscuit out of his hand. It hit the floor and rolled into a corner. "I'm terribly sorry," she babbled. "I just remembered that one fell on the floor earlier. I set it on the counter, but somehow--let me get you another one!"

#

Christopher hovered near the edge of the circus encampment. He wore the rough clothes of the laborer disguise. The circus tents had been set up on the other side of the field. The music and lights would attract the townsfolk. When he saw Ginger approaching, burlap sack over his shoulder, he hurried out to meet him.

"How did it go?" he demanded.

"Her understanding of the situation has been--altered." Ginger gave Christopher an up-and-down assessment. "You look strained."

"Have you ever tried wrangling that many kids? I was happy as heck to turn them loose. With all the townsfolk heading out for the circus, though, I'm worried somebody will recognize me."

"Recognize you as what?"

Christopher struggled for words. "Recognize me as any of the things I've been!"

Ginger smiled. "I'll put you into clown makeup and a costume. Nobody will look at a clown and see a Pinkerton, or an escaped laborer."

"Is that what being a clown is about?" Christopher asked. "Hiding who you really are?"

"Oh, it's nothing that simple," Ginger said. His voice was grave, but his eyes were merry. "Being a clown is about becoming whoever is needed, whenever they're needed."

#

Dr. Janzen, as the Great Doctor Panjandrum, gave his spiel and sold his snake oil and noted down the names of those who complained of muscle aches and weakness, or nervous energy. He would give the names to Mrs. Della Rocca. She could keep her eye on them, though that might not do much good. It was a long list.

After the townsfolk returned home, he retired to his wagon. He stared glumly at the bed. He didn't see himself sleeping well for a long time to come.

A knock on the door shook him from his reverie. "Hello," the fortune teller said, when he opened the door. "I was wondering if we could leave the body of the 'bandit' here so Seppanen Town can give him a decent burial."

He coughed. "Ah, that might not be a good idea. He's a bit--cut up."

Behind her veil, the fortune teller's lips moved in an unexpected smile. "Now, would that tendency be why you lost your license? Did you pay the grave robbers for their harvest?"

"A knowledge of the human body is indispensable for a practicing doctor," he said stiffly. "The education given in most medical schools is wholly inadequate. If the knowledge I have was gained by . . . unconventional means, it has still saved many lives."

She sighed happily. "I do love it when the pieces fall together. But, ah, you should bury the body before it starts to smell. No keeping it in formaldehyde." She paused. "Nobody will complain about the ringmaster, though. He'll make a nice addition to the Museum of Educational Novelties. And after all, his body might be evidence in a murder trial. The police tend to get cranky when you dispose of evidence."

He stared at her. "Who are you?"

(To be continued in Episode 8: The Peculiar Case of the Fortune Teller's Veil)

Afterword

If you enjoyed this episode of The Circus of Brass and Bone, consider making a donation to keep it going (and get a character named after you, and a copy of the final book). You can do that at www dot circus of brass and bone dot com, which is also where you will find special features including deleted scenes, character information, and research tidbits. All proceeds go to help cover the costs of my mother's treatment for advanced ovarian cancer. If you can't afford a donation, tell a friend, or blog about it.

Acknowledgments

This episode is brought to you by the generous donations of Charles Stevens, Cali Mastny, Lindsay Kleinman, Alice Marks, and Hannah Valentine.

The Circus of Brass and Bone is written and recorded by Abra Staffin-Wiebe (that's me). My main website is at www.aswiebe.com, and I blog at cloudscudding.livejournal.com.

Music is courtesy of Vermillion Lies. Go to their website at vermillionlies.com to hear more.

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