Jack O'Connell - The Resurrectionist

The freaks breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was announced that Chief Micmac Shawnee would not be performing due to a continued illness. Ringmaster St. Clare apologized on behalf of the Bedlam Brothers, and when he began to announce the final act of the final night of the Jubilee, the crowd soon got over whatever disappointment it might have felt at missing the psychotic strongman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster said, his words echoing around the big tent, “we now come to the moment you have all been waiting, so patiently, to arrive.”

The audience became silent in an instant and rose to their feet in unison as the house lights came down and a single spotlight illuminated Renaldo St. Clare, standing in a cloud of swirling mist. The freaks stared, as entranced as the rest, peeking through the fat calves of farm wives and around the boots of tractor salesmen.

In the middle of the center ring, St. Clare stood with his head bowed, looking down at what everyone knew to be the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole. The ringmaster made a point of toeing the soft earth where the Resurrectionist had been interred. He stared down at the ground as if gazing on all of the failings of mankind. Then he lifted his head and spoke in a clean, strong showman’s voice.

“One week ago,” he said, “you all witnessed a terrible event here under our own joyous tents.”

A pause to let the memories swim upstream.

“Here in this palace of marvels, you saw a dozen of your own citizens, your husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, step onto this midway and commit the greatest sin of all — the taking of another human life.”

Additional spots were ignited and the eye of the crowd was drawn to a sad parade of twelve townsmen, now dressed in ill-fitting prison uniforms of black and white striped denim. The men shambled like condemned slaves, their feet shackled and each carrying a shovel over a sagging shoulder. They came to a stop before the ringmaster, who placed a hand on one head and watched as the lot of them fell to their knees facing the grandstand.

“You witnessed their fatal transgression,” St. Clare said. “You saw them fall prey to their own murderous rage and do what only God may do. You watched as your own people became savage killers and dispatched a helpless man to a pitiful and agonizing demise.”

Chick squinted and could see tears running down the cheeks of many of the killers. In the seats above him, he could hear weeping from the crowd.

“You saw that hideous spectacle one week ago,” said the ringmaster. “And surely, you will never forget it. But we are called to forgive these murderers. Just as we, ourselves, are forgiven for our own failures and infractions. So let me ask you tonight, can you find it in your hearts to forgive these sinners who kneel before you?”

The murderers had hung their heads, cast their eyes to the ground. One on the end was weaving and Milena wondered if he were drunk or simply overcome with the weight of his crime. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter to the mob. They stood and cheered, clapped hands and stomped feet.

The ringmaster put his hand over his mouth for a second and then over his heart.

“You are,” he said, “a compassionate people,” and this goosed the cheering up into the realm of screaming.

St. Clare let it go on for a while and when it began to die on its own, he grabbed the collar of the murderer kneeling before him and yanked the man to his feet.

“Rise up,” he said. “Every one of you. Rise up, now. Stand like men. You are blessed to live in a town of mercy.”

When all of the killers were on their feet, the ringmaster came around and faced them.

“The people,” he bellowed, “say we must forgive you. And forgive you we surely will. But first, before any forgiveness can be bestowed, it must be earned. Through a penance.”

He turned sideways and threw an arm into the air as if presenting the killers to the audience for the first time.

“So let us see you work for your absolution.”

As if coached, all of the murderers at once took their shovels in hand and attacked the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole.

“That’s it,” bellowed St. Clare, “let us see you earn your acquittal. Let us see you sweat for this exoneration.”

The murderers went to work with a fierce spirit, putting their backs into their labor, working up a lather of sweat. In no time they began to excavate the grave, descending into the soft earth under the breathless eye of the audience.

The ringmaster had the courage to forgo any narration and the crowd seemed to appreciate the credit he gave them. There was concentrated silence under the big top as the citizenry united in collective anticipation while the diggers sank deeper and deeper into the ground, opening a large pit around the perimeter of the grave proper.

Finally, one man stopped digging, hesitated a moment, threw his shovel aside, disappeared into the hole, came back into view and said, into Renaldo St. Clare’s waiting microphone, “We found him.”

St. Clare nodded but offered no instructions. The crowd inhaled in unison. Chick looked at Bruno, who had a hand placed lightly on his bandages and was sweating as profusely as the diggers.

Several of them now vanished down into the darkness of the hole. A series of grunts and groans became audible, as if they were struggling to move something heavy and bulky. Eight of the killers emerged from the pit and stood off to the side, leaning on their shovels, looking nervously from the ringmaster to the hole and back again.

It took a few minutes for the remaining four to climb into the spotlights. They rose slowly, moving as one. And when the crowd realized that they were carrying a corpse between them, a chorus of shrieks and howls filled the air.

The four bearers placed the body of Lazarus Cole at the feet of the ringmaster, then joined their colleagues on the other side of the pit. St. Clare looked down upon the crumpled and filthy pile of flesh and shook his head sadly. He cleared his throat and the noise of the clearing washed over the grandstand and silenced the audience.

“He was once the greatest magician on the circuit,” St. Clare said solemnly. “And it was my honor and my privilege to know him as I did and to call him my friend.”

Children could be heard crying despite their mothers’ efforts to silence them.

“The lesson we can all draw from this tragedy,” the ringmaster said, “is that sometimes the trick doesn’t work.”

Now the mothers were crying. The fathers were crying. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins were crying. Friends and neighbors were bawling. The entire audience was sobbing, heaving, awash in a sea of instant grief.

Which turned into shocked relief when the corpse at the ringmaster’s feet suddenly jumped up, nonchalantly brushed down its tuxedo, rolled its head around its neck, stretched its arms out in the air, and loudly proclaimed, “And sometimes it works like a charm.”

Then he gave a theatrical bow and the crowd exploded into an ovation that shook the grandstand and the big top and vibrated in the heart of every person gathered together for this macabre Jubilee.

Lazarus Cole was alive and well and no worse for the wear of a vicious beating and what appeared to be a week buried beneath the earth. He bowed twice more, once to the left and once to the right. Then in a gesture both grand and classy, he moved to greet his killers, embracing them one by one and planting a kiss on the cheek of each.

The action was too much for his murderers to bear and their shock and sorrow and joy blended and overflowed. The lot of them broke down, sobbing like infants at a harrowing birth. They embraced Dr. Cole and they embraced one another, until Dr. Taber appeared with a gazonie who led the absolved men out of the tent.