Elizabeth Heydon - Elegy for a Lost Star

“All right, then, who wants a ticket?”

The voice came from behind Quayle. He continued to stare down the keeper as the others moved away; he could hear the sound of coins being exchanged and directions to a place at the outskirts of the town being given. Finally when the people who had been watching moved away, the man behind him came around to the keeper’s side.

He was tall and thin, with a similarly thin black beard that brushed the edges of his cheeks. The man was dressed in gaudy silk pants, striped in red and gold, with a green waistcoat and a tall black hat.

“Well, my friend, can I interest you in a ticket?” the man said; his voice was deep and pleasant, with a sinister ring to it.

“If that’s what you call a freak, I think not,” said Quayle, pointing to the panting creature.

The tall man stepped closer. “I assure you, my good man,” he said, his voice inviting and threatening at the same time, “the Monstrosity is a sideshow of incomparable interest. There is something for every taste. You can’t help but be entertained. As for freaks”—he leaned closer, speaking as if he were delivering a secret—“the darkest recesses of your mind cannot possibly imagine all the horrors the carnival holds.”

Quayle rubbed his chin, as if considering. “And who is in charge of this carnival?”

The tall man’s dark eyes roved over Quayle’s face.

“Who’s asking?”

“Someone with somethin’ to sell,” the fisherman replied stoutly. He had seen too much dark action in his days on the wharf to be intimidated by a clown in striped pants, a muscle-bound deadglow, and a hairy man behaving like a monkey.

The tall man’s eyes narrowed.

“I am the Ringmaster of the Monstrosity,” he said darkly. “And I doubt that you have anything that is of interest to me. I have collected the finest specimens of freakdom from every corner of the world—”

“What about a being that is both man and woman, and part fish?” Quayle interrupted.

The Ringmaster snorted. “Got one,” he said.

Quayle crossed his arms. “This one’s real .”

Rage began to brew in the tall man’s black eyes. He cast a glance around the alleyway to ascertain whether anyone had heard Quayle’s derisive comment. “All of the Monstrosity’s freaks are real,” he said, unmistakable menace now in his voice. “And now, if you don’t wish to buy a ticket, you should leave.”

Quayle considered without blinking. “Tell you what,” he said, ignoring the blackening anger on the face of the keeper, “I’ll buy me a ticket, but you will come meet me outside the sideshow half an hour before it opens at dusk. I’ll show you my Amazing Fish-boy, and if you want him, you’ll buy him from me—and buy back the bloody ticket. Bargain?”

“Half a crown,” the Ringmaster said, extending his palm.

Finally Quayle blinked. “Truly, I am in the wrong business,” he muttered, pulling forth his coin purse and depositing the coin grudgingly in the tall man’s hand. “But at least I know that when you want to buy my freak, you will be well flush to pay me handsomely.”

Quayle met up with Brookins outside the western gate.

“How’d the catch sell?”

Brookins offered him his hand and pulled him into the wagon.

“Surprisingly good,” he said, taking the reins again. “The fires on the western coast shut down the flow of fish. The mongers were pretty hungry for it. An’ I found ropestock for dirt cheap.”

Quayle rubbed his hands with delight. “This is shapin’ up to be a very prosperous trip, Brookins,” he said importantly. “How’s our fish-boy?”

“ ’Twas alive the last time I checked him, but he’s startin’ to shrivel. They’ll need to get him into a tank or something fairly soon. And he stinks to beat all.”

“By sunset he will be out of the wagon; we can scald it good before headin’ back,” Quayle said. “Well, I’d best check on him and see if we can pretty him up before he meets the Ringmaster tonight.”

He crawled into the back of the wagon, stepping gingerly around the seaweed blanket, and pulled it back carefully from the creature’s face.

Unconscious, exposed to the sun, Faron merely blinked and exhaled, the air escaping through the fused sides of its mouth in a hiss.

Quayle reached over and shook the creature, recoiling at the slimy feel of its skin.

“Hey! You! Wake up, beast. You’re going to the grand ball! At least for your kind.”

The creature did not move.

Quayle’s brows drew together. “Wake up,” he urged the creature again. When it still did not respond, he looked over his shoulder at Brookins. “Not good—they won’t want to pay as much if all he does is lie there.”

“Mayhap he’s sick,” Brookins suggested.

“Mayhap. Fish out of water—can’t be feelin’ too well.” Quayle steeled himself, then gingerly took hold of the creature’s thin wrist and raised its soft arm, folds of skin hanging loosely, only to have it fall limply at its side again. The fisherman exhaled in annoyance, then blinked, moving closer for a better look.

In between the long, arthritic fingers something was wedged.

Quayle reached out and took hold of one end of it. It was thin and hard, with a ragged edge, green. At first it had blended into the seaweed so that he had not seen it. He gave a tug.

The creature’s eyes flickered open.

Quayle tugged again.

The fishlike creature hissed, louder this time, its head lolling back and forth, struggling to awaken.

“What the—?” murmured Quayle. He tugged once more, with as much torque as he could muster. The object broke free of the creature’s grip, leaving a thin trail of black blood dripping between its spindly fingers.

The creature’s eyes snapped open, and its fused lips shook with agitation. It hissed wildly, and flailed its weak arms, reaching for its treasure.

Ignoring its protestations, Quayle held the object up to the light of the afternoon sun. It was hard, like an insect’s carapace, with tattered edges, at the same time flexible, with tiny etchings that scored its surface. At first he would have said that it was green in color, but when the light hit its surface, it refracted into a million tiny rainbows, dancing over the object.

“Bugger me,” Quayle whispered, entranced.

The creature hissed louder and spat, its eyes focused on Quayle, brimming with anger. It made another weak grab for its object, but Quayle moved easily out of reach.

He stared at the thin disk for a moment more, then looked back at the creature, who was glaring at him with all of its remaining strength.

“You want it back?” he asked softly. The creature nodded angrily. “Good—you do understand me. Well then, my friend, if you want it back, you’d best look lively in front of the Ringmaster; if he likes you enough to buy you, then you can have your treasure back. And only then.” He slid the ragged disk into his shirt and climbed back onto the wagon board, turning a deaf ear to the piteous wails and whimpers coming from the back.

The Monstrosity was set up to the north of the city, just beyond the edge of the outer villages, in a ring of torches and lanternlight that cast twisting shadows on the Krevensfield Plain beyond.

In the light of the fading sun and the flickering brands, Quayle and Brookins could see ten circus wagons, each painted gaily in dark, rich colors with images that defied the imagination. In addition, there were several carts and a number of dray horses, with a multitude of tents set up all around.

A steady stream of people were en route to the sideshow, a host of wide-eyed spectators mixed with unsavory characters undoubtedly seeking other pleasures than the mere spectacle of viewing the monstrous. Quayle knew that sideshows were often fronts for peddling flesh, particularly flesh of the more perverse nature.