Thread: Carnival: Shadows And Whispers Under The Big Top (Dane Stalling & darkangel76)

Callum Cropper wiped the loose corner of his mouth with a dark red rag. It was habit more than need, he hardly ever drooled any more outside of his cage, and that only for the spectators. He sat in his tinker wagon and hummed along with the automatic piano in the bar tent, a song written by Clown Roald about poor old Fat Man Johnny Lambert. They're lighting the lamps now Johnny From Angrenaj to deFum Their oil is saving them money They're lighting the lamps with you! Callum thought Johnny was probably escaped to a sanatorium on the Atlantic side, but they hadn't ever found him or his body, so Doctor Manuel's Circus and Carnival of Spectacles did what it did best. They collected coin with their conceit of it. They'd had to throw away thousands of posters with Johnny's banner, after all, and Callum had found himself in Johnny's place on the posters, although Johnny's trailer went to Albert and Ava Sparrow, the new aerialists. Callum still had to sleep in the tinker wagon, but it suited him. There were no windows in it to shutter. They're lighting the lamps with yooooouuuuu! The song ended and Callum blew out his lantern, checked to make sure there weren't spectators wandering or making their own sneaky entertainment behind the freak tent, and heaved out the door into the thin, slippery mud. The aerialists came out of their trailer at the same time, long coats hiding their tight striped costumes. They wore boots against the mud and the litter. It's The Monster, Albert said, nudging Ava. Callum limped toward the freak tent. His left foot dragged, leaving a curl in the mud. Albert leaned down gracefully and pulled a carnival poster from the mud with two fingers. You're a celebrity, Monster. I'm Cal when I'm not in the cage, Mr. Sparrow, he said. I'm a bachelor when I'm not on the wire, Mr. Monster, Albert said. He laughed and ran his thumb along his thin, straight mustache. Ava made no comment. Ask the Doctor who makes the fan turn in your trailer, Callum said. He had no real smile, so he saluted the performers. I'm Cal when I'm not in the cage. Callum slipped into the back of the tent at a loose flap and crawled into the back of his cage. He locked the immense lock behind him and pocketed the key. He stowed the rag in another pocket and thought of roasted fish, of salt pork, of buttered bread. He felt the spit pool in his loose lip and make a shining line to his coat. Albert was right. He was a celebrity of the carnival, on a full third of the bills they were posting in the next town even as they fleeced this one. He avoided mirrors, but he couldn't avoid his face on the posters, pasted everywhere by the bill stickers. His shoulders hunched in the drawing, his spine curving into the air behind his ears and his face split almost in two by a wobbling growth he had had as long as he could remember. His teeth crowded into the cramped space of his jaw and tried to escape his mouth in all directions. He heard a woman moan from the Doctor's therapy tent. Not so much a side show as a shadowy side business, he treated female hysteria with Absolutely safe and reliable means, discovered in a book of science from antiquity. The euphemism caused winks and nods among the troupe, but it brought in a fantastic amount of coin, so they recommended the therapy on the rare occasions a mark asked about it. A muddy pair of lightfinger carnival brats hurried by the cage, dragging a woman's travelling-bag between them. Callum's arm shot out and snagged the bag and shook it from their hands. Get out you thieving rats! He hissed at them, Stick to wallets and watches. You'll bring the coppers in! The children disappeared, squealing and Callum pulled the bag close. It was fine, the leatherwork expensive and the brass fittings shiny. He had no time to move the bag to a safe place before the late night rush of gawkers so he slid it around to the side of the cage where he could keep an eye on it. He startled when Sadie from the next booth curtsied in front of his cage and stroked her beard. Evening, Cal. Evening, Sadie. You're looking lovely this evening. Thank you, she said, and you look like the souls of the damned are tormenting some other bastard. You're a philosophical monster this evening. Yes, he said, it's puzzling that things fingers can do are frustrated by the face over the fingers. You do have beautiful hands, Cal. Hide them. The crowd's coming in.