Jack O'Connell - The Resurrectionist

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Nadja, getting to her feet and slapping her claws together.

They began the march to the Jubilee, Bruno in the rear this time and lost in thought. He didn’t notice that Chick had stepped beside him until he heard the boy’s voice whisper, “So, did you meet the Resurrectionist yet?”

Before the strongman could respond, Chick moved up to the front of the parade and stepped into the lead position.

THE LEGEND WASthat the Bedlam Brothers had started out as ordinary gazonies, signing on with a lower tier show when it passed through their hometown of Mt. Seir one summer’s day. And as far as anyone can tell, the legend is mostly true. Suffice it to say that the brothers worked their way up in the outdoors entertainment business. They approached the game like a problem to be solved, mastering each area of carny expertise and moving on to the next. In this way, they had done it all, been barkers and candy butchers, ticket hawkers and twenty-four-hour men. They had labored as concessionaires and cleaned up the most gruesome donnikers in the land. One brother was said to have served some time as a musclehead on the rural Athletics Show circuit. The other was known to have mastered an imposing array of skills in the magical arts. But through all these years of training and traveling, the brothers’ true genius lay in that most misunderstood of all arts: showmanship.

Gladys Bedlam’s boys were both masters of, and innovators within, the mystical art of the ballyhoo. They knew more about the techniques of hype and fanfare than entire generations of showfolk combined. This was their secret and their golden goose and it paid off in spades. The boys bought their first circus before they were out of their teens, a ragtag company long past its prime, staffed by reprobates and perverts and mangy, disease-ridden animals. But by the end of their first season, the boys had somehow transformed the cavalcade into a must-see event and word of its thrills passed from village and parish to town and county. Every night saw a straw house crowd and the brothers reinvested the bulk of the profits, adding more acts, upgrading the talent, and sprucing up the sets and the costumes.

Now they were the preeminent circus owners in Gehenna and, with nothing left to accomplish, they had managed to turn their legend into myth. No one saw the brothers anymore. They still traveled with the Jubilee, but in a massive rig that was their home and office, a sanctuary declared off-limits to everyone. They continued to supervise every element of their extravaganza, but they did so through their puppet, an operatic ringmaster named Renaldo St. Clare.

It was to St. Clare that the freaks were presented by Forrest DeWitt. The ringmaster walked the parade line, which was set up along the hippodrome, inspecting each member of the clan silently but carefully, scrutinizing the extent of their anomalies and hunting for signs of fraudulence. St. Clare plucked a feather from Chick’s arm and held it up to the sunlight. He knocked on Antoinette’s skull, had her kneel so he could check for seams. He poked at the web of flesh that bound the twins together, put his fingers between Jeta’s ribs and even tried to pull off one of Nadja’s claws. But when he began to lift the hem of Milena’s makeshift dress, the hermaphrodite pinched the ringmaster’s cheek and said, “I’ll show you what you want to see. But if you try to touch anything, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

Bruno thought that display of cheekiness would kill any chance of employment. But when the ringmaster approached him, St. Clare was in good humor. When Bruno expressed surprise, Renaldo explained, “Every real he/she I’ve ever known was a ball-breaker. Your crew gets my vote. Now I just have to convince the brothers.”

And he disappeared into the massive black trailer that was parked at the end of the midway.

Twenty minutes later he was back, carrying Jubilee badges for the entire clan.

“Congratulations,” he said to the freaks, passing out the pins that would grant them admittance to the mess top and the bathhouse. Bruno got the key to the double-wide that they would all have to share until other accommodations could be arranged.

That night, the freaks slept like full-bellied lambs and used all of the next day to familiarize themselves with the Jubilee and get ready for opening night. By and large, the carnies treated them warmly. The clan had its run of the wardrobe trunks and was given a tour of the sideshow annex where they would be on display. They were pleasantly surprised to find that the facilities rivaled those of the Goldfaden. The stages were clean and ample and the lighting was first-rate.

Ringmaster St. Clare gave them a quick breakdown of the Jubilee method of sideshow performance.

“What you make, of course, will depend on your ability to fill the top,” St. Clare said, turning to Bruno and Milena, neither of whom could hide their shock. “And your ability to fill the top will depend on your talker. I’ve always been of the opinion that a freak is only as good as his bally. No matter how strange and terrible your performers, if you can’t get the marks into the annex, you can’t show them your wonders.”

He clapped Bruno on the arm and said, “But you look like a seasoned barker, my friend. I’m sure you’ll have no problem seducing the citizens of Mach’pella.”

“Barker?” Bruno said, suddenly confused. “I’m not a barker. I’m a behemoth.”

St. Clare looked at the strongman and then at the freaks.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re not their barker? I thought you told my canvasman that they were your act.”

“Well, they are,” stammered Bruno. “I mean, that is, I’m traveling with them. We’re traveling together. We used to perform together. In the same circus. That is. .” and he looked to Chick for help.

“Mr. Seboldt,” explained Chick, “was the strongest man in our homeland. He can pull a locomotive for over five hundred meters.”

St. Clare said nothing for a few seconds. He stood smiling and nodding, as if thinking of something else. Finally, he said, “That’s very impressive, young man. Quite a feat, I’m sure. But we don’t have any locomotives here.”

“What I’m trying to say,” Chick said, “is that Bruno is a strongman, not a barker. He’s never worked the bally.”

It came out sounding like an accusation.

Ringmaster St. Clare nodded his understanding.

“The trouble is,” he said, “we already have a strongman. And, with all due respect to our friend Bruno here, and meaning no insults at all, I assure you, we think our strongman is a fine one. He’s been with us for many seasons now. Micmac Shawnee. You’ve heard of him, perhaps? We call him the Chief. An authentic savage, strong as a dozen bulls and meaner than a cornered snake.”

St. Clare took a breath and shook his head.

“Now, what we didn’t have, until yesterday, was a genuine, state-of-the-art freak troupe or a barker that could sell them.”

Everyone stood looking at the ground and one another as if trying to solve a math problem that had been carved in the earth.

Finally, Bruno clapped his hands together and said, “Mr. St. Clare, you’ve been very generous with us and I want you to know how much we all appreciate that. If you say we need a barker, then we need a barker. And though I may not have any experience, I’ve been on the circuit most of my life and I’m a fast learner. And the truth is, I’d be proud to bally for my friends here.”

Renaldo St. Clare looked like he’d just dodged a hail of bullets.

“Excellent, Mr. Seboldt,” he said. “I look forward to working with you and your entire troupe. The show kicks off at sundown tonight with the opening ceremonies. You won’t want to miss that, I promise you. We’ll open the sideshow annex at seven. Should you have any questions or concerns between now and then, you can find me on the midway. Good luck to all of you.”