Contents

Part One

Chapter 1: Point Elizabeth

Chapter 2: Fires

Chapter 3: Dillon

Chapter 4: The Circus

Part Two

Chapter 5: Cinteotl and Gold

Chapter 6: The Schedule is Ephemeral

Chapter 7: Spring Rain

Chapter 8: Rebellion

Chapter 9: Explorations

Chapter 10: Celebration

Part Three

Chapter 11: An Interview

Chapter 12: A Map

Chapter 13: Advice on Love

Chapter 14: Metal

Chapter 15: Movies

Chapter 16: Missed Performances

Chapter 17: Ex-Wives and Crackpot Theories

Chapter 18: Visitations and Outside Air

Chapter 19: The Circus Performs 96

Part Four

Chapter 20: Improvisation

Chapter 21: Costumes and Encounters

Chapter 22: Rehearsal 122

Chapter 23: A Promising Place

Chapter 24: Scheduling Conflict

Chapter 25: Flood

Chapter 26: Immaculate Conception

Chapter 27: Dictates of the Locale

Chapter 28: Further Adventures under the Mall Town

Chapter 29: Precautions Must Be Taken

Chapter 30: Desolation and Disharmony

Chapter 31: Comfort in the Midst

Part Five

Chapter 32: Everywhere Green

Chapter 33: Cybele's Land

Chapter 34: Rider in a Parched Land

Chapter 35: The Cave

Chapter 36: Return

Acknowledgments

~

Bonus material

Robert Freeman Wexler interviewed by Jeff VanderMeer

Advertising feature: more from infinity plus

Circus of the Grand Design

Robert Freeman Wexler

Published by

infinity plus

www.infinityplus.co.uk/books

Follow @ipebooks on Twitter

© Robert Freeman Wexler 2004, 2011

Cover design © Robert Freeman Wexler 2011

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Robert Freeman Wexler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Other Books by the Author

In Springdale Town

Psychological Methods to Sell Should be Destroyed

The Painting and the City

Part One

Chapter 1: Point Elizabeth

Commuter trains always cut through the ass-end of things, wastelands of urban and suburban sprawl. Lewis stared out the window at a surrealist cast-off, juxtapositions of crumbling warehouses, vacant lots, ornate brick apartments, junkyards piled with crushed automobiles. Farther out (he had been assured), Long Island becomes an oasis of vineyards, organic farms, and quaint fishing villages. And why were fishing villages always described as "quaint"? Fishing had to be one of the hardest jobs on the planet.

A sign proclaiming Tucci's Auto Salvage flashed past. The train jangled to a stop at a town called Wantagh, and several passengers got off. Lewis hoped his destination, Point Elizabeth, was well past this swamp of over-congested desolation.

Picturing fishing boats and clam bars with nautical names, he had rented a house in Point Elizabeth for a few days as a refuge from the city. The only thing he knew about the place was its reputation as a center for scallop harvesting. The house belonged to an artist who called himself Are No; Lewis had found it through an ad in an arts newsletter.

Across the aisle, a woman leaned over to kiss the shoulder of the man beside her.

"You're kissing my fabric again," the man said.

Romantic fishing village weekends weren't meant to be taken alone. Lewis thought about Martha, seeing her face and long blond hair spray-painted across the back fences of the houses that the train shook past. Instead of coming with him, she had taken an extra assignment for her magazine, an interview with a famous underground film director's mistress. November was a stupid time to go to the ocean anyway, she said. They had argued about it and hadn't spoken to each other since, now two days.

A young girl behind him bounced in her seat, squealing, "Wanda wants a wild wombat, Wanda wants a wild wombat." Did the kid's mother think everyone wanted to hear? Haughty Martha would have turned around to glare at them.

He and Martha had met in college. They dated some, shared a house with several others, and split up after graduation. She moved to New York and he wandered, living for six months to a year in successive cities, uninterested in permanence. They had reunited at a party in New York a couple of years ago and decided to try living together. In arguments, she always claimed that her New York apartment was the reason for his being there.

Paths, journeys, destinations...sometimes moved in harmony, sometimes not. His life (peripatetic was the word his mother used in a letter forwarded by one of his sisters), his life wasn't governed by the places he went to or the jobs he found there, but by the act of going. What then, this dismal passage to the place called Point Elizabeth? Beyond the fences and hedges, anything could exist. He had always made these journeys alone—and that formed the root of his present discontent. Journeys intended to be solitary could be enjoyed in solitude or in the company of chance companions, but solitary journeys planned in tandem begin with a loss, a void difficult to fill on one's own.

Wombat girl and the mother got off at Fanshaw's Leap. The fabric-kissers remained for several more stops, then he was alone in the car. The sun set, and the sign for each stop became difficult to make out. The conductor wandered up and down the train, calling out names, but he didn't make it to every car in time to warn the passengers, though most seemed to sense theirs by instinct or ingrained repetition. Worried that the conductor wouldn't warn him when they reached Point Elizabeth, Lewis pulled out his train schedule and checked each time they stopped.

And finally, the conductor called "Point Elizabeth!" It beckoned, mysteries to be explored, charms like soft merino blankets to soothe his city-induced tensions.

~

Stepping down from the train, Lewis shivered. After the three hour ride, the sodden landscape depressed him. Rain had been falling all day in the city, but he had somehow expected it to be different here. Worse, the temperature was supposed to drop below freezing that night.

Two taxis waited in the parking lot. He got into one and gave the driver the address. Though Are No had said it was a ten minute walk, he didn't feel like trying it in the rain.

They turned down a dark street, and the pavement ended, giving way to gravel. The only light came from the cab's headlamps. The road began a gradual upward grade that soon steepened. When the cab reached the summit, the driver yelled and braked, the unexpected force throwing Lewis against the door. The car slid sideways and stopped. Sudden thoughtless random action interposing molecules of surprise, fear, heart speeding on to unknown destinations, farther farther. Where to, brave heart? Don't leave a poor man alone...not here, amongst the debris, the detritus, the unwashed ass-end of nowhere.

The driver's face appeared, wrapped in fog, framed by blue and orange lights that clung to his eyebrows and oozed from his nostrils. "Sorry. Sorry," the driver said. He reached toward Lewis as if to comfort him.

Lewis yelled—"What the fuck are you doing?"

Looking out the window beside his cheek, he saw that the street ended in the sea. Droplets of mist floating above the water glowed in the beam of the taxi's headlights. Across the inlet a red light blinked star-like on the end of a dock.

The driver backed the car away from the water. "Never taken this road to the end before," the driver said. "They oughtta have a barrier here." He pulled into the driveway of a white stucco house with the number twenty-three, which he had somehow failed to see as he sped past. Lewis paid and got out.

Are No's house appeared to have no front door. Lewis walked up the driveway, passing a two-seater sports car, to a back porch overlooking a wild yard of high grass and twisted trees. He knocked on the glass door and Are No opened it.

Are No stared at Lewis, blinking, as though he had been sleeping. "Yes?"

"I'm here to rent the house?" Two weeks ago he had met Are No at a bar in the East Village, giving him a deposit to reserve the place. Are No should have been expecting him. And after nearly getting dumped in the ocean he wasn't in the mood to get screwed around by some fake-named artist.

"Oh. Come in then." Are No continued his blinking stare, but backed up to give Lewis enough space to enter.

The interior of the house felt colder than the damp night outside. Lewis asked about the heat.

Are No looked offended. "Didn't I tell you? Heater's broken. Plenty of firewood though." He pointed across the one-room first floor to the fireplace, where a charred log sat on a grate over a pile of ash. A moose head with purple antlers hung over the mantle.

"I'll show you the bedroom then," Are No said; they walked to the far side of the room, past a floor-mounted photo collage, larger than a king sized bed and covered by a sheet of Plexiglas. The photos showed alternating views of sky and the surface of the water. A green armchair stood beside the collage, and beyond the chair, a narrow staircase led to the second floor.

Lewis followed Are No up the stairs.

"That's the bedroom," Are No said, pointing to the right. "The other is my studio. It gets the best light, but I don't want you in there."

The studio smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Untouched by the fireplace's inefficient heat, the upstairs rooms were colder than below. Are No picked up a suitcase from inside the studio, and they descended the stairs.

"Now, do you know how to start a fire?" he asked.

Lewis answered yes of course, but Are No kept talking.

"There are certain tricks learned through years of experience." Are No removed the screen and squatted in front of the fireplace. "You've got to punch up through a shaft of cold air. The heat on the bottom has a lot of wood to go through, so you put paper on the bottom and more paper on top to raise the heat."

Enough already, Lewis thought. Leave...he would handle things. He knew how to make a fucking fire. No way he would sleep upstairs though, too cold. He looked around the room at the paintings crowding the walls. Are No probably wouldn't approve of him sleeping in front of the fire, but he would be gone soon.

"Are you watching?" Are No said. "I think its ready." He struck a match on the fireplace bricks and lit the newspaper. When he stood up, he looked around the room, nodding, as though inspecting each piece of art, then turned to Lewis. "One of the burners on the stove works. You can use the table, but I'd appreciate it if you sit on the near end, where I've put the place mat. I told you no meat in the house, right? I don't have an answering machine, so if anyone calls, take a detailed message. There's a guidebook on the desk you can look at, but don't remove it from the house."

This must be the closing speech about leaving everything in the condition he found it. Fine, he wasn't destructive. He handed Are No several twenty dollar bills.

Are No laid them on the desk and stared at them, then looked at Lewis. "This isn't enough."

"We met...I paid half in advance—"

"No-no-no. You paid the deposit. You still owe for the rental."

Are No gathered the bills into a neat stack and stared at them, as though he could make the money increase. "I don't like this. I can't have you staying here unsecured. You're going to have to give me the full amount, or leave."

Unsecured? Ridiculous—the guy never said anything about a deposit. "Look, you checked my references, you know where I work. I'm paying you plenty for a place with no heat."

"I have valuable artwork here."

Lewis looked around, avoiding Are No's eyes. The house was too dark. He would turn on all the lights as soon as Are No left.

"Do you have your checkbook?"

He would have to pay—only way to get rid of this fucker. Lewis reached into his backpack for his checkbook, filled one out, and handed it to Are No.

"Great then, we're all squared away." Are No picked up his suitcase and opened the door. "Enjoy your stay. After my inspection we'll talk about return of your deposit."

Lewis remained in the doorway, listening to the thump of Are No's trunk shutting and the rumble of his sports car engine. The car backed down the driveway, and Lewis moved to the front room, looking out one of the small, round windows that bracketed the fireplace until the lights of Are No's car faded from view.

Chapter 2: Fires

Sometimes, Lewis wished he was more like his older sisters, one a medical doctor like their parents, the other a biochemist for a pharmaceutical company. Their lives had stability, predictability, and income. He had always been able to find work when he moved to a new city, but never for much money. School had never interested him, and being like his sisters would have required an early commitment to academics. The sisters, they thought him feckless—one of them, he couldn't remember which, had once used that word to describe his life. Feckless and peripatetic. Aside from the amorphous bond of having grown up together, they had little to keep them close.

Perhaps while he was here, at Are No's Fabulous Beach Resort, he would write to them, something he usually did at least once a year.

~

Deciding to go down to the water before bed, Lewis rummaged through Are No's kitchen drawers and cabinets (noting assorted serving utensils, corkscrew with a fish-shaped handle, empty box of candles, plastic dishes painted with scenes of purple fish and orange kelp) until he found a flashlight.

The truncated road, where it met the shoreline, reminded him of an amputated leg. Looking out across the dark water, an inlet of a larger bay to the northeast, he wondered what had happened to the rest of the road. He remembered dreams of highways entering the water and continuing past submerged homes, graveyards, churches. His father had told him stories of burial mounds flooded when the government built the dam in the hills near their old family homestead. Lewis's grandmother's house likely still stood somewhere below the surface of Clearwater Lake. Catfish inheritors nosed through the rosebushes and up the stairs.

Pale gray mist drifted on the surface of the bay. Mist flowed from his mouth when he exhaled. "Here we are. Here we are," he kept saying, as if the words lent some affirmation to his surroundings, and the cold air he took into his lungs reinforced his sense of being adrift in an unknown and unknowable land of severed roads and mist.

The wind picked up, chill penetrating his clothes and inadequate coat. Rain had turned to ice, which made a slithery sound falling among the ragged grass.

He returned to the porch, where the thermometer hanging from a beam showed twenty degrees, and despite Are No's claim of expertise, the fire had died. Leaving the door open, Lewis made several trips to the woodpile, stacking logs beside the fireplace until he thought he had enough to last the night. Only a few pieces remained on the porch. Tomorrow he would need to find more.

Still wearing his coat, he squatted on the cold Plexiglas surface of the collage to rebuild the fire. From this position, he could see that each photo showed a different view of sea and sky, not the same two photos duplicated. At the bottom a label said: Project Poseidon.

The flames took hold again, and he went up the stairs to the bedroom, each step of ascent bringing him deeper into a hungry maw of ice, lying in wait, splayed across Are No's second floor...the two rooms repulsed him, a tactile force of cold his body could not penetrate. He wouldn't sleep up there, but the mattress on Are No's brass bed would be impossible to move. In the studio though...a futon couch. He dragged the thin futon mattress down the stairs, then returned for a down comforter and flannel sheets he had found in the bedroom closet (though Are No had instructed him to bring his own bedding).

Thinking it would be nice to sit up in bed, before the fire, and write in his journal, he pulled the notebook from his bag and looked around for the light switches.

"I don't believe this crap," he said.

Every light in the house was already turned on, but aside from a lamp on Are No's desk and an overhead in the kitchen, they were all low-wattage bulbs and fixtures, mounted under the artwork and pointing up at it.

He sat at the desk and opened his journal to begin a letter to one of his sisters—didn't matter which, he would say the same thing to both, but after a few sentences, Are No's guidebook distracted him. He picked it up. A red tab marked the section referring to Point Elizabeth.

~

The coastal area near Point Elizabeth is a maze of saltwater marsh and narrow inlet. Farther out on the island, of course, one can find the flashy summer homes of the Hamptons, where old and new money clash, fighting for ascendancy in stores selling designer clothes and foods, but in Point Elizabeth, life moves at a different pace, the pace of scallop and lobster fishers and their traditions.

Point Elizabeth was first settled in 1649 by the Dutch (though England was already in control of the former New Amsterdam, it still drew settlers from The Netherlands). Hendrik Hemmen, a minister who came to the area in 1731 left this record, "Game and Wildlife abound, as well as Mosquitoes in even greater numbers, but the good soil and fine weather will likely draw many. I can see this settlement expanding far beyond the size of Boston and other meager cities of the mainland."

Despite the failure of Hemmen's prediction, the population did expand over the centuries, and in addition to the fishing industry, the town boasts several antique shops and a restaurant.

~

The scent of wood smoke relaxed Lewis, and he forgave Are No for his inadequate lighting and nonexistent heat. Swiveling the chair around, he watched the flames, letting their dance and crackling laughter mesmerize him. It wasn't so bad here, though having Martha with him would have been better. They could have kept each other warm.

But no, good little Martha had to stay in the city and work. He slapped the guidebook closed and went into the bathroom to prepare for bed. Martha was too much like his sisters, too responsible, too much of a rule-follower. She worked as an editor for a large glossy magazine and always bragged about the actors and artists and other important people she met. He hated his publicist job at the engineering company. Next week he would turn thirty. He had always thought if you didn't establish yourself before thirty, the struggle grew harder, but he still hadn't figured out what he wanted to establish himself in.

~

He woke shivering. The fire had subsided, and the cold seemed worse, even under the comforter. He added more logs and went back to sleep. A few hours later the cold air forced him outside for the remaining wood. He piled it on the embers until the flames blasted up the chimney. As the heat grew, he wandered around the room examining the tacky furnishings—the stuffed catfish attached to the mop handle so that the mop hung from the fish's mouth, the folded patch of iridescent hardened foam on a pedestal, and the blue and yellow painting of slogans inside road sign shapes, such as:

Under the road sign painting was a pine cabinet, about chest high. He tried the door, locked.

Despite his annoyance with Are No's ridiculous house, one of the artworks intrigued him, an etching showing a scene of pyramids, a volcano, and a three-headed sphinx. The faces on the sphinx's heads were all of the same woman. Her sad beauty thrilled him. The title, Cybele Enchants the Magma, was written at the bottom beside the artist's signature. Are No's contribution had probably been the tacky red plastic frame.

He returned to the locked cabinet, tugging on the door and playing with the latch. He even tried to pick the lock with a paperclip.

Before getting back in bed, he went outside to see if he had missed any wood. One heavy log hung over the edge of the porch, but it looked too long for the fireplace. He swept the flashlight around the yard. Icicles glittered in its beam. To his right lay the bay, its waters still; in the other direction a hedge veiled a large house, dark, probably sealed for the winter. The thermometer now showed ten degrees.

An ax hung from a nail beside the former woodpile. Thinking he could split the big log, he picked up the ax and hacked away, but only succeeded in knocking off shards of bark.

"Soon as I fall back asleep the fire will go down and I'll freeze."

He burrowed under the covers, but now he couldn't sleep. That Are No...lot of nerve, renting the house in this condition. Lewis would never take advantage of someone like that. No heat. Are No heat. He said there's plenty of firewood. See No wood. And Martha. Her fury formed a horrid beast, but only he witnessed it. She kept a good face for everyone else, but she was cold. She had a cold soul. Maybe he needed someone cold. So cold in this house. What would he do after the wood was gone? The wood was already gone.

He would burn some furniture.

"Are No's precious cabinet goes first," he said.

Either burn or freeze. Though really, the house wasn't that cold, was it? He was overreacting. Likely there were more blankets...upstairs though...even colder up there...stay right here, under the comforter. Finally asleep, he dreamed of cooking beef stew in Are No's meat-free kitchen, until the cold air woke him again.

He put on his shoes and went outside for the big log. It was too heavy to carry; he dragged it through the door, rolled it over the futon to the fireplace, and pushed one end in, thinking he would keep pushing it in farther as it burned. The other end stuck out several feet, where it rested on the edge of the futon. He lay down and watched the big log catch fire. It occurred to him that letting the log lie on the futon might be dangerous, but then thought, who cares? He congratulated himself for being so wicked with so little practice.

But he wasn't finished. He returned to the porch for the ax and took it to Are No's cabinet. He inserted the blade between the locked doors and twisted. The wood buckled and the latch snapped. Lewis threw both doors wide with one exaggerated motion.

This is what Are No kept in a locked cabinet? Four shelves, each covered with a layer of fishing lures. He carried one to the desk to examine in the light. Long and fat, tapered on one end, like a cigar with a filter. Red body, with green polka dots and blue eyes. A ring on one end, strands of hair and three barbed hooks on the other. Three barbed hooks on top.

The air felt warmer. Lewis spun around. Fire had engulfed the big log. He lunged to pull the futon away from the fireplace but dragged the log with it. The comforter began to smolder. Pain stabbed his hand—the lure—one of its hooks had punctured the skin of his palm. He ran toward the bathroom for a bandage, then stopped—no time—and picked up his backpack. Feeling safe in the open doorway, he stopped to ease out the hook. The point hadn't penetrated to the barb. About to drop the lure on the porch, he changed his mind and pulled a sock from his pack, wrapping the lure so the hooks wouldn't prick him again.

His journal lay on Are No's desk. He wouldn't leave it. Though the futon was burning, the fire hadn't spread. A few quick steps brought him to the desk. While there, he picked up the phone to call the fire department, but the line was dead.

Cold fingers of air pushed smoke toward him; he hurried back to the door. Fire had spread to Are No's green chair. The etching Lewis had liked hung near the door. It would be a shame for it to burn; he lifted it from its hook, then left.

~

Ice hung from the branches, pale in the light of the rising sun. He broke off a piece and clenched it against the puncture. His hand hurt, but it hadn't bled much. The wind battered him all the way to the train station; he warmed himself by maintaining his anger at Are No. He still couldn't believe the man's arrogance. Who would blame Lewis? No heat. Are No Heat. What a joke of a house anyway. But the so-called valuable art. He had saved the only worthwhile piece, and the clownish fishing lure. Everything else, the hundreds of other lures. Gone. Never to catch another fish, poor things.

He would call the fire department from the train station. Say he had been asleep when the fire started. No one could blame him. Say he was going home because he didn't have a place to stay in the area. He hoped it took the fire department a long time to reach the house.

Chapter 3: Dillon

When he reached the train landing, he stopped, looking around at the ice-draped trees and cars. His anger had dissipated along the way, and without it, icy tongues licked his exposed skin, penetrated the folds of his coat. The pay phone at the train stop was outside. The benches were outside. A small diner stood near the tracks. He could call the fire department from in there. But the man at the cash register told him the phone lines were down.

"I thought I saw smoke down Rampart Street," Lewis said. "I was going to call the fire department."

The man shrugged, and Lewis looked for a place to sit. It would likely be awhile before the first train—no sense waiting outside in the cold. He could check his schedule after finding a seat. There were only five stools at the counter, all full. A few booths. Why was the place so full this early in the morning? Maybe everyone had burned their houses last night. More likely they were fishermen. He was glad he didn't have to work on a boat in this weather. He moved toward an empty booth in the rear, but when he reached it he found it occupied by a gray-haired man so small the back of the seat hid him. The man hunched over an omelet that looked as though it had been made from half a dozen eggs.

"Mind if I join you?"

The small man nodded toward the empty side of the booth. Lewis sat, placing the etching beside him so it faced the seat cushion; he dug into his backpack for the train schedule. The next train to the city left in an hour and a half. Good—Martha would be at work when he reached the apartment. He wouldn't have to see her until evening.

After the waitress took his order he looked out the window at an enormous icicle hanging from the diner's roof.

He couldn't believe he had burned Are No's house.

"Rarely have I seen an ice storm such as this," a resonant voice said, startling Lewis. The small man across from him had spoken, his voice uncannily deep and musical considering his size. The man had finished everything on his plate, consigning it to some biologic storehouse obviously unaware of its owner's lack of bulk.

"Are you from around here?" Lewis asked, wanting to hear more of the man's voice. The man's blue eyes seemed feverish, as if he had been without sleep for years; his stare was mesmerizing. The waitress brought Lewis coffee and he sipped, willing the warmth to spread throughout his body.

"I am from nowhere," the man said. "By profession a gypsy, a circus master. I sail the winds to many distant shores, bringing expectation and enjoyment to all who seek it."

Circuses had always fascinated Lewis. In college (pre-Martha), he had dated a girl whose aunt was a well-known seal trainer; he had been disappointed when they broke up before he could meet the aunt.

"I'm a bit of a gypsy myself," Lewis said. "I've never been happy staying someplace very long, so I've moved around a lot."

The waitress slid a plate in front of Lewis, and the aroma of fried sausage tickled his nose. He forked scrambled egg onto a triangle of toast.

The glare of the man's searchlight eyes turned toward the window. "We are at present in residence back in the city," he said. "I came out here seeking a woman reputed to live in a shack on the bay. The serpent woman, they call her. It is said she raises snakes that have hands, and the little creatures do her farming, though of course that cannot be. The only person I found who knew of her was a young man who claimed his grandmother bought produce and jam from her."

He picked up his knife and twirled it in his long, elegant fingers. The man's voice and story intrigued Lewis, and he found himself wanting to spend more time in his company.

"I haven't been to a circus in years. Do you have anything on you, a program, brochure, that I could look at?"

"My marketing has been nonexistent of late, as I have been concentrating on other matters." The man reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. "However, let me present you with a card." He handed it to Lewis. The card's edges were frayed, and the raised gold script was barely legible. It read: "The Circus of the Grand Design, Joseph Dillon proprietor."

"That's an intriguing name, like the fairy tale."

Warmth radiated from the card to Lewis's fingers, then spread to his hand, wrist, arm, a tingling warmth, as if charged particles covered his skin, arraying themselves into the shape of fine silk thermal underwear.

The battered card gave him an idea.

"Look—your circus sounds great, but you shouldn't be operating without real promotional material. I can help you. I've been doing public relations for an engineering company, but I'm looking to move on."

Looking to move on? Yes, after what happened to Are No's house. And he had been restless lately, the early stage, the pre-readiness to move, though he hadn't recognized it till now. The increasing distaste for the blandness of his job, planning the trip to Are No's, the ensuing argument with Martha (and all those brittle moments leading to it), formed a script that directed him elsewhere.

"I could travel with you, create a program with photographs and biographical sketches of your top performers."

Martha had often nagged him about the need to make proper career choices. She likely wouldn't approve of this one. But...considering the fire...she would never know about it. He would leave without telling her.

Something about the man made Lewis want to join him immediately, venture out into the country, to small town and metropolis, presenting their entertainment vision to everyone. Though he worried that Dillon would be suspicious of his sudden interest. He was about to tell Dillon of his life-long love for the circus, but Dillon started talking.

"Yes, but you must be sure you are ready. It will not be possible to return you to the exact place whence you began."

Dillon pointed one of his elegant fingers at Lewis's chest. Despite the man's small size, Lewis could easily imagine him as ringmaster of his circus. His melodious voice was too powerful for the small, drab diner to hold.

"A circus performance, you see, moves in the fourth dimension—time—as a sequence of present moments flowing away to become part of the past. It cannot be re-read after it is gone."

Chapter 4: The Circus

Lewis boarded the train to Penn Station and took a seat. Goodbye...Point Elizabeth. During his wait, the sun had emerged; light shone clean and sparkly on the icicles, but away from Dillon, his mood dipped. Dillon had left the diner before Lewis finished eating, to continue, he said, his search for the snake woman. He had told Lewis when and where to meet the circus back in the city. Lewis thought he might watch today's performance, after attending to the various tasks awaiting him in the city, packing, leaving...what the hell was he doing? Impossible—first the fire, then...flight? He couldn't do this. If he went to work tomorrow, today even...those people he worked for would have no idea that he had been planning to leave.

But the fire...he hadn't called to report the fire. The authorities wouldn't care that the phone lines were down. They would hold him responsible.

A fugitive from justice.

But he would be safe with the circus.

Because of the ice, the train took longer to reach the city, though the day turned out much warmer. A branch of his bank was around the corner from the train station, and he decided to close his account before the check he wrote Are No could clear. Afterwards, he took the subway down to his neighborhood.

Indecisive about returning to his apartment, he wandered through Chinatown. Walking was clumsy with the etching flopping in the wind, and he didn't like how exposed he felt, with any passerby able to see what he carried. He could discard the frame to make it easier to carry, but that might damage the artwork. At a butcher shop, he stopped for brown paper and twine to wrap around the frame.

The circus was performing at the old West Side Coliseum. Dillon had said they would be leaving that evening, after a two o'clock matinee. Martha's apartment building was a few blocks north of Chinatown. He had time for a focused visit.

The entry hall was blessedly empty, and he climbed the stairs to the third floor. The backpack he had taken to Are No's would serve for most of his clothes. He removed the unused bed sheets, leaving them piled on the floor, and transferred his journal to the satchel he used for work, which already held a legal pad and some pens; he filled the pack with clothes. Not much else of his remained. Martha's things. He hadn't brought any furniture to the city, and the rest...everything could be replaced.

~

By the time Lewis reached the coliseum, the pale winter light was fading. The coliseum stood among abandoned warehouses and newly opened bistros and wine bars, the latest redevelopment zone in a city of endless redevelopment. The building was in the process of being demolished, and he wondered if Dillon had given him the wrong location.

But a banner draped across the pockmarked front proclaimed:

The chance of a lifetime

The circus of dreams

Starring the unbelievable

in gold letters on a blue background, and in the lower right-hand corner in much smaller letters:

Circus of the Grand Design

Now in its Fabulous Second Century.

At the ticket booth, he handed the man behind the glass a bill. He felt out of place, not yet an official part of the circus, and thought it would be easier to pay than explain his situation. The ticket-taker handed him change.

"You missed most of it," the ticket-taker said.

Lewis found his section and walked through the entry into the arena. Scattered clumps of people, at most two hundred, occupied one side only, creating a more theater-like effect than the usual circus in-the-round.

On the wide oval of the arena floor, a scrawny teenager and a man wearing a black tuxedo shared the beam of a spotlight. Tuxedo man juggled several fluorescent balls. Several feet away from the pair, an overturned fork-lift lay beside a pile of bricks, cinder blocks, and a refrigerator door. The performers seemed oblivious to their dilapidated surroundings.

"This is too easy!" the juggler said, his voice echoing from the bare concrete. The teenager drew a dagger with a curved blade from a sack at his feet and held it over his head. Someone in the audience gasped when the assistant tossed it to the juggler.

Lewis walked down the steps to his row. His seat was on the end, directly behind a man and woman with two young boys. His was the only intact seat on the row; the sections to his right and all the way around to the opposite side of the arena had been torn out. He put his bags and the etching in the space next to his seat.

What kind of circus performed in such a rundown building? He should have called the fire department back in Point Elizabeth. Now he was committed to this...ramshackle operation. What did this imply for his sleeping quarters on the train? Well, it didn't matter. He hadn't signed a contract. If he didn't like what he found he could leave at their next stop.

"That's more fulsome!" the juggler said, merging the dagger into the flow of objects. "How about something else?" The teenager threw him an elephant tusk, then a French horn. The juggler changed his rhythm, sending one object higher, the next low, then high.

Amongst the dust and rubble, Lewis caught a pleasant scent, roses and lemons. The juggler began hopping up and down on one foot, keeping the objects moving in the same rhythm as when he had been standing still.

Best juggler he had ever seen, Lewis thought. He had never much cared for jugglers. A few minutes later, the juggler stopped, dropping the objects one at a time, and Lewis clapped along with everyone else.

During the applause break, Lewis glanced around the audience. A dark-haired woman in a seat across the aisle was looking at him. Her face seemed familiar. She stared without blinking as though committing him to memory. Her dark eyes and the intensity of her gaze unnerved him. He smiled a weak smile; she kept staring. He tried to stare back, but her eyes overwhelmed him, and he looked away.

"Thank you very much. Thank you thank you thank you," the juggler said. "And now, if anybody out there has something they would like me to juggle—a shoe, purse, bottle of wine—pitch it down here. There's nothing in the world that I can't juggle and that's a fact."

The woman's stare crawled over him, probing his cheeks and neck. Act unconcerned, he ordered himself, concentrate on the juggler—and while balancing a bag of popcorn, a small pumpkin, plus a man's boot, the juggler upended the popcorn, showering himself and his assistant with the kernels. The man in front of Lewis let out a howling laugh. A clown rushed out with a broom and the man howled louder. Lewis glanced over at the dark-haired woman; she gazed down at the far end of the arena floor, where a ramp led backstage. He looked too and could see something moving. Though he was relieved to find her staring elsewhere, he was also disappointed, though her concentration on whatever was backstage gave him the chance to observe her. He liked the contrast of her long, dark hair against the green of her jacket. Her hair was tied back by a green clip. Maybe she was the source of the pleasant scent.

He turned his head away, afraid she would sense his attention.

What would she think if she knew what he had done to Are No's house? She might not like him at all. But he wasn't a bad person. Are No deserved it. Lewis needed her to like him. He thought if he could explain, she would understand. But that was silly, fantasizing over a stranger when he should be worried about being caught. What if she was a detective, sent to bring him in? Those eyes—a detective wouldn't have those dark, dark eyes.

The juggler bowed and went offstage. The assistant picked up the scattered objects and dropped them into the sack. The spotlight snapped off. A few seconds of darkness followed, then the light came back on, revealing Joseph Dillon, who stood in the middle of the arena floor, wearing a white top hat and holding a white cane. Comforted by the sight of his new friend and employer, Lewis sat up straighter, intent, watching; banishing his wild speculations about the woman.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

Dillon's voice resonated over the sound of a drum roll.

"We have now reached our grand finale...an act I hope will please and excite...to new excesses...never before realized...in your lives." The light on Dillon went out; in the darkness his voice came from everywhere.

"And now...crafted by Hephaestus for the Olympians...an automaton...seen only by the fortunate few."

Dillon stopped, cloaking the entire building with silence. Shielded by the dark, Lewis gazed at where the woman sat, trying to make out an outline of her figure. He shivered—she could be doing the same, examining him, measuring his worth—as if he was an object of entertainment, like these circus people he would soon be meeting.

The whole arena exploded with light. The woman was gone. Lewis turned all the way around, scanning the building. She was nowhere.

With the light dazzling on Dillon's white hat, he spread his arms to welcome the audience. "And now. The one...the only...Attis...the magnificent mechanical horse and its fearless rider, Desmonica Rienzi."

Lewis watched amazed. What appeared to be a mechanical horse trotted into view and stopped near Dillon. That's what the woman had been staring at. She had been expecting it.

The horse seemed perfect, its fluidity of motion uncanny. Shiny metal, like pewter, with a black saddle and bridle and hoofs of radiant brass. Its mane and tail looked like real horse hair. The woman on the horse's back waved to the audience. She looked sleek and mysterious in her wine-colored leotard, short black skirt, and tights. He would be happy to meet this Desmonica.

Desmonica raised both hands over her head, and the horse reared. It pummeled the air with its hooves and made a sound like wind blown over the top of a bottle. Its hinged mouth flared out, showing silver. Another horse, this one dirty-white and obviously living flesh, trotted into view, ridden by a small man dressed like a jockey. The horses lined up on either side of Dillon. He lifted his hat and extracted a starter's pistol. Extending his arm straight up, he fired a shot, and the horses surged forward. They raced around the perimeter of the floor. Dust clouded the air behind them. They galloped faster and faster with each circuit.

But a mechanical horse couldn't possibly move the way this one did. It had to be a real horse disguised to look mechanical. Not that it mattered. The appearance was the important thing. All these tricks—would he lose the thrill of watching once he knew how everything was done?

The horses kept pace with each other until the fourth lap, when the mechanical horse edged ahead. The clown ran out from backstage with a black-and-white checkered flag. The mechanical horse passed the clown, who waved the flag to signify victory. The mechanical horse turned to the audience and knelt, with one leg going back and its head dipping in an equine bow.

Everyone in the audience, Lewis included, jumped to their feet applauding. Lewis felt thrilled, now, to have joined a group possessing a marvel like the mechanical horse.

A procession poured into the arena. From a speaker, drums and trumpets blared. A huge elephant costumed to look like a mammoth, with long, curving tusks, led the way, followed by two smaller elephants with female riders in regalia similar to Desmonica's; then a man on stilts wearing a giant sombrero and three stocky men in luminescent orange shirts and tights doing somersaults. The juggler followed, keeping three burning torches aloft. Last, a woman with three odd animals like a huge guinea pig crossed with a fat hyena. They were brown and yellow and came up to her knees. They looked prehistoric; Lewis wondered where Dillon had found them.

All these odd and amazing performers...he would never fit in with them.

The performers paraded around the entire arena, even though the audience was clustered at one end. They disappeared backstage, and the music cut off in mid-passage. A brief silence was soon interrupted by the rustling of bodies rising from their seats. The audience filed out, leaving a litter of empty cups and crumpled popcorn containers.

Lewis picked up the etching and his bags and joined the exodus, scanning the crowd for the dark-haired woman, hoping he might see her again.

~

The circus traveled on a private train, which Dillon said was parked behind the coliseum. Lewis was to report to Jenkins the porter, in the caboose. Unsure how to reach the rear of the building, Lewis turned the corner in search of an alley or loading dock. Most of the other patrons had gone other directions, and he soon found himself alone. With nightfall, the temperature had dropped, and he set the wrapped etching down to zip his coat. This end of the neighborhood was mostly warehouses and the fringes of the meat-packing industry. A few buildings had been turned into theaters, antique stores, but most of the area was deserted at night. The coliseum would likely be replaced with a condominium complex, changing the neighborhood forever.

He spotted the caboose, blunt and shadowy, a giant metal and wood box. Its door stood open despite the cold night air, and a light shone from inside, casting an orange glow down the steps. Inside, a man slouched at a table. Apparently sensing a presence behind him, the man rose and walked toward the door with slow, bandy-legged steps until he stood directly in front of Lewis, pointing his wrinkled face up at him.

Lewis introduced himself. The man continued to point his face, as though threatening Lewis with his sharp, beardless chin. Then he shook his head and turned away, muttering something about shoe salesmen.

"Wait," Lewis said. "You're Jenkins? Mr. Dillon said you could show me to my room. I'm new."

"Then put yourself on this side of the door," Jenkins said, without turning back to acknowledge him. "Won't find your room out there in the cold, matey."

Jenkins led him down a long passage illuminated by the same orange light as the caboose. They passed two doors on the right and a row of narrow, rectangular windows on the left. The dingy carpet felt lumpy, like a layer of burlap stretched over gravel. On reaching the third door, Jenkins unlocked it and handed Lewis the key. "This one's yours. You get a room to yourself, so feel lucky. Now I'll tell you how to find the dining car." He held up a hand with one finger raised. "Your car, two, three, four"—raising fingers as he counted—"five and that's it. Breakfast is when you get up unless you get up late and have to eat lunch, or if you get up real late you eat supper and later than that comes snacking, except when there's been a show. After a show, it's gorging."

Jenkins walked away, humming.

Lewis's room was larger than he had expected, about the same size as the living room of Martha's apartment. Along the far wall were two windows like the ones he had passed in the hallway. Rudimentary furnishings: twin bed, beside it a low nightstand with a lamp, one chair, a metal desk under the windows. A pull-string hung from a light over the desk. A closet on the right, bathroom between the closet and the windows.

The bare room saddened him. Nothing familiar, everything he knew left behind. He would never feel comfortable here. He dumped his backpack on the narrow bed and stepped off the room's length and width (his size ten shoes measured 12 3/16 inches), then multiplied for the square footage. The exactness of the measurements calmed him enough to unpack the little he had brought. Someone had left a picture hook on the wall over his bed; he tore open the butcher paper and hung the etching, then stood back, admiring it in its new surroundings. The faces on the sphinx reminded him of the woman at the circus.

Hearing voices and laughter outside his door, he paused; the performers had returned. Probably on their way to what Jenkins had called gorging. He had never spent time around show people and wondered what his new companions would be like. Deciding to do one last bit of decorating, he unwrapped Are No's fishing lure and tied it to the pull-string. It swayed and turned when he released it. He undressed, lay down, and pulled the sheet up to his chin. It seemed days since he had burned Are No's house. He couldn't remember ever feeling as tired as he did now. Settling into the too-soft mattress afforded the greatest pleasure.

The train lurched, and his insides fluttered, as if he was hurtling down a steep roller coaster. How long will this go on? The train must be moving. The sensation ended. It was good to be getting away. He began to drift into the fuzzy and disjointed thoughts preceding sleep, but something nagged at him. He switched on the nightstand light and sat up.

There were no train tracks behind the coliseum.

Part Two

Chapter 5: Cinteotl and Gold

No sunlight, no waning crescent moon. And the wind? The chill, battering wind lay in wait, malevolent, hidden for the moment but ready to strike. Ice crumbled in its path; its onslaught leveled mountains. Not safe here, in this flimsy house-box with its No-heat No-light.

Nothing looked the same. Are No's moose head? Where where where? Fire had gone out, but he felt warm enough. Indecision tore at him—remain ensconced beneath Are No's down comforter, despite the lack of fire, or venture out in the wind's dominion. The narrow bed confused him—he rolled onto the floor, banging his elbow. Then he remembered...Martha had left. She had moved out after their argument. He knew she would eventually. Nothing could prevent it. Now, he was too sad to get up. He would stay on the floor all day. But this wasn't the floor of Martha's apartment. No. He was the one who had left.

He lay his head on the carpet and closed his eyes. There had been a woman, but not Martha. She had been gentle. Her presence soothed him. The desert turned green with the Spring rains.

"He's such a dreamy boy," Lewis's mother had said many times, and not with tenderness.

Tenderness didn't get a person through medical school. He had learned that early. And neither of Lewis's sisters ever had to suffer that epithet. Dreamy. Lewis especially loved the irregular border where daydream interweaves with the intense, true dreams that mark the descent into sleep.

This floor though, its unfamiliar landscape hindered his dreaming. Carpet under his outstretched hand, not Are No's Plexiglas wonder, or Martha's hardwoods. But on the wall, Are No's etching, the sad faces of the sphinx welcomed him. He was glad to have brought the etching along on his journey.

"Here we are. Here we are," he said, and sat up, staring at the windows opposite him. A milky haze covered them. What lay beyond? He hoped they weren't always clouded. He wanted to view the landscape, see the night sky and the wonders it held.

The soft light made him think it was dusk, but it had to be morning. Not likely he had slept through the entire day.

~

In the corridor outside Lewis's door, last night's orange glow had changed to a sunny yellow. He slung his satchel over his shoulder and set off toward where Jenkins had said the dining car was. He wasn't hungry though. He had a queasy feeling, like seasickness. Maybe from that weird roller coaster sensation last night. But the dining car would be a good place to meet people. He would sit, maybe drink some coffee, write in his journal. At some point, he supposed he would have to get busy with his new duties. Things should be pretty easy-going here. It was a circus, not an engineering company. Anyway, the most crucial part of public relations is knowing the people involved.

He entered the car after his (second, according to Jenkins's numbering). It looked about the same as his, lumpy carpet, windows on one side, gray-painted doors on the other. The windows were clouded, all of them. In the next one, the three doors were green, white with a rainbow decal near the top, and orange. His was plain wood. Maybe he would paint it. He liked the green. As he progressed through the train, he found himself counting off cars and, like Jenkins, raising fingers to keep track. One interesting door in the fourth car: an intricate scene like a greek vase, with soldiers mounted on elephants fighting spear-wielding foot soldiers.

The dining car was a long rectangle with cloudy windows on both sides and a floor the color of egg yolks. Beneath the windows were several chrome-edged booths. On the other side of the room was a counter the color of a ripe tomato, and behind it, a man, standing so still that Lewis at first thought he was a mannequin. He was small but broad, with dark hair cut in a bowl-shape. His eyes appeared to be open, but unfocused, and he didn't move until Lewis was about three feet from him.

"Okay boss, what would you like?" the man asked. And waited, wiping his hands back and forth across the sides of his stained white apron. Now Lewis wasn't sure coming to the dining car had been a good idea. So much food everywhere: sausages, cheeses, and grease-dripping roast ducks hung from hooks, and on the counter, bowls of dried fish smaller than his pinky, dried squid, dried mushrooms, dried fruit. He thought he might faint, and looked away, at the cloudy windows.

"How about a suicide roll?" the cook asked.

A blackboard menu hung by the counter. Lizard meat? Must be some kind of circus joke.

The cook, without waiting for an answer, handed him a cup of coffee and a plate with a steaming pancake-crepe thing wrapped around some sort of filling. Lewis put down his satchel and slid onto the blue vinyl seat of the booth closest to the counter, facing away so he wouldn't have to look at all that food. He picked up a napkin and rubbed the window. The density of the mist reminded him of when an airplane passes through a cloudbank, cloaking everything in grayish-white. This mist probably had something to do with the temperature differential between winter out there and the warmth inside the train, but it shouldn't be so impenetrable. And wouldn't condensation be on the inside?

Away from the counter's overwhelming profusion of food, he felt better. He pulled up a flap of pancake thing: potatoes, onions, and some kind of meat—lizard? He picked it up and bit into the flakey wrapper. The filling was spicy and aromatic, cumin and cardamom perhaps, but another rumble of that seasickishness shook him, and he lowered the pancake thing back onto his plate.

Hoping that writing in his journal would settle his stomach, or at least divert his attention, he took out his notebook. He had been keeping an intermittent journal for several years. Since graduating from college. All the long years of school provided an easy identifier for his life: Cheryl Moskowitz—tenth grade girlfriend; fight with that guy he couldn't remember the name of—eighth grade; he had read The Golden Sail his first year of college, finishing it late one night after studying for a history mid-term. But after college things blurred, months, years with nothing to hang onto them. He started the journal so he could attach dates to experiences.

He wrote November at the top of a new page. It had been the seventh when he arrived at Are No's. How many days ago was that? He shook his head, having trouble grasping the rush of events—one night at Are No's, and not even a full night, then to the train. So today was the ninth.

~

The new world,

Being the onset of a wild new chapter of life, immersion in the circus. Discovery awaits.

~

The cook came by to refill his coffee cup, and Lewis asked if he knew the time. Although Dillon hadn't said anything about meeting in the morning, Lewis thought it would be a good idea, and he didn't want it to get too late.

"I wake up and there's onions to chop. Today I made roti. Then I served you."

Lewis wondered how to convert that answer into time. He returned to writing in his journal, but before he could complete the next word, the cook, without a sound to announce his arrival, appeared beside his seat.

"I made these just before you came," the cook said, presenting a plate of powdered sugar-covered doughnuts. To demonstrate, the cook took one and bit into it, dusting his lips with sugar.

"Thanks, they look good," Lewis said. "But I don't have much of an appetite now. Maybe later?"

"Fruit then? I have a nice durian." The cook pointed to a basket filled with spiky, football-sized fruit.

"No thanks, I really don't feel like I can eat. But can you sit down? I'd like to ask you a few questions about the routine around here."

"Too busy." The cook carried the doughnuts back to the counter, then left through a door next to the refrigerator. Lewis heard the click of a bolt.

First a moody porter, now a cook who was only nice when offering food. Lewis stared at the window and imagined the world flowing by on the other side. Quaint villages and stinking factory towns, apple orchards, cornfields, rivers. Without sunlight, how would he be able to judge the passing of day?

He wrote in his journal about his experiences at Are No's and his meeting with Dillon. The Are No part—he didn't want anyone to see that. Not that he ever showed anyone his journal, but now it felt different. What he wrote incriminated him, proved he was responsible. Not likely Dillon would have taken Lewis if he had known about the arson.

The cook returned to his post carrying something that looked like a giant turkey.

"You cook slow or they're tough, especially these small ones from the highlands."

The juggler entered, bouncing two small white balls. He nodded at Lewis. His red terry-cloth robe dragged on the floor behind him.

"Morning Cinteotl."

Never heard a name like that, Lewis thought. He turned his head so he could see them.

"I've been chopping onions and carrots," the cook said. "Not to mention wrestling with this bird. It's good I plucked it right after I caught it."

The juggler bounced the balls on the counter twice, then flung one of them behind him. It hit the floor a few feet from the far wall, caromed into the wall, up to the ceiling, down to the floor, to the ceiling, and back into his hand. He pushed the balls into a pocket.

"How about a couch," the juggler said. "Haven't had one since...last night."

From behind Lewis came the sounds of an ice machine, then the juggler sank into the seat across from him holding a plastic cup of iced coffee. "I'm Garson Gold. I juggle."

"Yeah, I saw your act last night." He introduced himself and started telling Gold about having been just hired to do public relations. "I'm doing a complete marketing package, biographical sketches..." What an idiotic way to talk. He wasn't working with engineers anymore.

"Well I was born juggling. My parents recognized my talent immediately and made sure I didn't grow up playing crackle-box all day like everyone else. My father knew this guy, the leading juggler of his day until he fell off his unicycle. He wanted to sharpen me up, but there was nothing I needed to learn. I was ten. The year after that I got a job on the Carmen Hill show."

The cook called out for Gold to pick up his food. Lewis closed his notebook and pulled out a legal pad (not wanting work to creep into his journal). He wrote: juggler—TV show. Gold returned with his food, a circular bread about the size of a dinner plate, like a pita but thicker; reddish sauce oozed out an opening in one end.

"Do you have a resume? That would help me with my bios."

"I don't need a resume. People come to me." Gold shoved some sandwich into his mouth but continued to speak clearly, as if his words were too important to be stopped by an act so mundane as eating. "I play the piano too."

Of course you do, Lewis thought. Watching Gold eat made his nausea return. He pushed his plate away.

"You okay? You look a little green."

"I feel seasick or something. I can't eat."

"Everybody gets that way at first. Except me." Gold reached for Lewis's suicide roll and bit into it. "There's a certain peace one gets while juggling—everything revolves around the center of your existence. Once you've found your inner center, you achieve the proper flow. You can juggle anything. Millions of good jugglers never reach this. They lack the total fluidity of movement that I have." Gold pantomimed juggling, tossing invisible objects into the air and catching them. He knocked over his cup; ice spilled onto the floor. Lewis held back a laugh, pleased that Gold couldn't control every object he touched.

Gold ignored the accident. "I learned about the inner center during my apprenticeship with the master who trained me. Before that I was all style with no substance." Gold got up, taking his glass. "Before I became what I am now."

Lewis heard the sound of ice tumbling into a glass. Gold returned to his seat juggling ice one-handed, as if to make Lewis forget about what he had just spilled.

"Of course the Academy recruited me. During the first season, I went out on the road with the varsity. I was the youngest, and the star. It was on one of these tours that I found the first love of my life. I was signing autographs and giving a demonstration a few hours before showtime. She was strolling with some friends. They stopped to watch, spellbound. As soon as I saw her, I knew she had perfect jugglies."

"Perfect what?" Behind Lewis, the cook clattered plates and silverware. He seemed to be making more noise than was necessary. Several loud thuds made Lewis turn around.

"It's best to pound the whole spices yourself right before using them," the cook said. "Otherwise they lose their essential oils too quickly." The cook had wheeled out a portable gas grill and set it up beside the counter, apparently for cooking the giant bird.

Gold pantomimed juggling briefly, then put his hands flat on the table. "We ended up in her dormitory room, on a sweltering night, and though she was probably my age, I of course seemed the elder because of my worldly experiences, which needed no embellishment. When she took off her shirt, I knew I had been correct. She stepped up and down from a stool while I held her perfect jugglies." Gold closed his eyes, apparently overcome by the memory.

"We made love standing up."

Gold took the rubber balls out of his pocket and looked at them as though unsure whether to juggle or fondle, then he slid out of his seat. "See you around."

"Wait—do you know where I can find Mr. Dillon?" Lewis asked. "I have to go over some things with him."

"Next car is the gym, then his, elephant's foot knocker," He walked out dribbling the balls against the ceiling.

Lewis hoped not everyone in the circus would be like Gold. Would he find any likable people among them? And what would they like about him, a regular guy, with no thrilling tales and exploits?

He sat writing everything he could remember about public relations, as though creating an essay for a college exam. Finally over his queasiness, he decided it was time to look for Dillon.

Chapter 6: The Schedule is Ephemeral

Lewis entered a vast, murky space. The shadows and peculiar light made the greenish walls seem far away and close at the same time. The air tasted musty, thick, with traces of animal scent, of human sweat and past activities. A rubberized jogging track ringed the room. Needing a path, he stepped onto its surface and followed it toward the far door. From above came a rustle, a repeating swish and plop; he looked up. Four men flowed from trapeze to trapeze, constant motion of arms and legs, leaping and catching. Afraid to walk under them, Lewis moved into a darker part of the room. He passed a miniature pickup truck painted bright yellow, then various types of exercise equipment. Off to his right was what appeared to be a carriage—an aluminum frame with four bicycle wheels and a pedaling mechanism. The configuration of the pedals looked as if the carriage was meant for an animal to operate, like bicycles for bears. He wondered if it was used by the giant guinea pig-like animals he had seen parading with that woman.

Emerging from the gloomy recesses of the gym, he saw that Gold and his assistant had entered and crossed under the acrobats to a bare area near the far door.

"Distractions as usual," Gold said, nodding to Lewis.

It was the first time Lewis had stood near Gold. He hadn't realized how tall the juggler was, almost a head taller than Lewis.

Gold stripped off his robe to reveal a dazzling white tank top and black nylon shorts. "Let's get started," he said.

"Aren't we supposed to work on my act today?" the assistant said. "I've been practicing for months, and you haven't even showed me how to find the center yet."

Gold's voice assumed a patronizing tone. "You're not ready for that. I was juggling for six years before I received real training."

Lewis wondered how old the assistant was and how he had ended up in the circus. He was about an inch shorter than Lewis, but much thinner. His clothes were overlarge, perhaps castoffs from Gold or other performers. He seemed too young. Did children still run away to the circus?

One of the acrobats shouted "Pishta" and tumbled to a thick mat spread beneath their trapezes. He lay for a moment, then sat, looking dazed. A man hanging by his legs from one of the trapezes spread his arms like an apology. The seated acrobat looked up and shook his fist, yelling in a language Lewis didn't recognize. The other three acrobats landed on the mat, and the acrobat who had been dropped jumped to his feet and shouted at the one who had apparently committed the error. They all looked identical, same height, hair color. Lewis wondered if they were brothers. They didn't act like brothers. Not like brothers who were close, anyway. The acrobat who had been dropped butted his head into the other one's stomach, knocking him down. He shouted once more, turned, and stomped away. The other pair stood over their comrade, who lay gasping, clutching his stomach.

"Should we do something?" Lewis asked Gold. It scared him to think that these people depended on each other to perform.

"I don't affiliate with them," Gold said. He raised an eyebrow, as though trying to communicate more than he was saying. "These mountain people...though they are in their eccentric way, artists, and deserving of some praise."

The two acrobats who hadn't been involved in the conflict helped their companion to stand and walked toward the far door, supporting him between them. Apparently uninterested in the drama, Gold and his assistant began practicing their routine.

~

The next car was similar to the other residential cars, but had only one door in the middle of the hall. And there was the brass knocker shaped like an elephant's foot. Lewis tapped with the foot and waited.

Dillon's voice called out: "Enter," and Lewis did.

The room smelled of turpentine and oil paint, like Are No's frozen studio. Dillon stood facing an easel with a canvas showing three irregular black splotches. A glass palette covered with dabs of paint sat on a nearby table. Lewis closed the door behind him and waited for Dillon to turn around. Off to Lewis's right was a wooden desk, of plain design, though the wood had a warm, buttery glow. A few paintings hung on the walls, abstract like the one on Dillon's easel, paintings that filled him with a combination of unease and gratitude, and he thought of eggshells, of a massive chrysalis giving birth to a creature of uncanny beauty.

Dillon laid his brush on the palette and stepped back from the painting. "The light is sometimes difficult here, but I paint more from memory anyway," he said, without turning around.

Lewis forced his attention away from the paintings. "Can I get a performance schedule?" he asked. "Then I can write press releases and send them out at our next stop. There's a book that has newspaper addresses all over the country. I had one in my office at work, but there wasn't time to go get it. So we'll need to pick one up somewhere."

Paint smudged Dillon's fingers. He picked up another brush and waved it over the canvas, perhaps unsure what to do next. He stepped back, then lunged at the canvas and painted a yellow band around the black splotches. The effect of the yellow and black was hypnotic. Dillon refreshed the brush with yellow paint and continued surrounding the black splotches

"Yellow, green, and black are the colors of our dreams," he said.

Why had he come to see Dillon?...press releases, the program guide, his job. "So then, the best thing would be for me to see a whole show, then maybe begin interview—"

"The schedule is ephemeral. We follow a twisting convolution of a path from show to show." Dillon set his yellow brush in a jar of turpentine and backed about ten feet from his canvas. "Give me the press releases, and I will see that they reach the proper places."

Not liking the way Dillon was trivializing his job, he began dictating additional details: "I'll need a list of everyone in the circus and their acts so I can start roughing out the program, and I'll need to know how much you want to spend on all this, and I'll probably..." He felt as if his voice was fading, seemingly unable to force itself into the indifference of Dillon's room.

"Jenkins will give you a list of current residents," Dillon said. He reached for another brush, one with a wide, fan-like tip, which he dipped into a blob of green paint. Now what was the man doing? Dillon began a vertical green line, painting over part of a black splotch and its yellow border. The act of covering up dismayed Lewis. He liked the black and yellow, didn't want anything to happen to them. He wanted Dillon to stop.

"Printing costs...photographs...biographical..." Lewis found it difficult to continue without a response. Why had Dillon hired him if he wasn't going to be helpful? He supposed Dillon was more accustomed to dealing with performers, which made Lewis's position unique, and vital to their success.

Dillon looked up from his painting and pointed his brush at Lewis. "We are all constituents of the accumulation of our experiences, good, bad, and indifferent. It is up to us to channel those experiences into the form most beneficial for our welfare, the grand design which is attainable for everyone, yet realized by so few."

Chapter 7: Spring Rain

The wrenching Lewis experienced the first night had not repeated. The train's motion was impossible to sense: no swaying, acceleration, deceleration, none of the things one associated with normal train travel. From somewhere came a low hum. Perhaps that meant they were moving. The windows remained cloudy. Lack of a feeling of forward progression, lack of sunlight, lack of structure, all made concentration difficult. They could be at a siding, could be anywhere. He had no way of knowing, and this indeterminate state welled forth, a chaotic mix of nervousness and boredom, grasping, pulling at him with a force he hadn't the ability to fight.

Sitting in the dining car, empty of cook and customer, Lewis was tempted to put his head down, close his eyes. The gray light of the windows leached the air from his body, filled him with a thick liquid drowsiness, amoeba-like forms in orange and black.

Had he been working on something? His legal pad lay beside his elbow. It wouldn't hurt to go back to his room and lie down for a while. He had accomplished much already, met Gold, talked to Dillon, seen the acrobats practice...did they know English? If not, perhaps Dillon knew enough about them for the program.

Of course Dillon knew. It was Dillon's circus. Dillon knew everything. The problem was getting him to say something in an understandable format. What had Dillon said at the Point Elizabeth diner? Something about sequences of present moments. Thinking about Dillon's words made him feel even more exhausted. He closed his eyes. Where was the cook with that enormous bird he had been preparing? Drumsticks big as a leg of lamb. If he put his head down for a minute he would feel better. Just a minute. Then he would find Jenkins. Get the list of personnel. Later. Finally, night, and cicadas in the trees, singing to him.

~

Brightness startled Lewis. He thought he caught a faint scent of citrus, as if someone had been grating lemon peel, but it faded. Where did it go? Now gone, he wished for its return, wanted to bath in its sunny glow.

"Damn, where's breakfast," a voice said.

Lewis raised his head from the table. Gold stood in front of him wearing the same robe, but his hands were empty. No bouncing balls in the morning perhaps.

"Seen the cook?" Gold asked, then went behind the counter and began pulling things from the refrigerator. "Cinteotl doesn't like people coming back here, but I can't wait for my food. And I need mochamalt. Need it now."

Lewis stared at the cloudy window, willing his eyes to see through to the countryside beyond. Perhaps a hillside town with two-story row houses perched over a ravine. And the river, its swift flow providing power for the mills—that was what drew people, who built their lives among the rocks and trees. But the mills had long since closed. Some fell into ruin while others were recycled into art galleries, shopping malls. Kayakers navigated the waters and put in at various campsites and inns.

Gold carried a plate of what looked like limp, shredded potatoes to Lewis's table and sat opposite him. He started talking. "Life at the Academy was hard for most people. Not me. Though I had never been given juggling instruction. Never needed it. My parents had never encouraged me, but juggling was my truth."

Lewis flipped back a page in his legal pad—Gold says parents recognized talent, found master to train him.

"We made the finals, as usual, but aside from me, the team was dismal. Our sword swallower slipped and cut off his head."

Gold ate the shredded-potato things (or were they short noodles?) with great delicacy compared to his other meal that Lewis had witnessed. Using a slim fork with two narrow tongs, he lifted each strand to his lips separately and chewed. And talked. Lifting, chewing, talking, for him all one connected activity.

Lewis still had no appetite. These strands—potato noodley things—perhaps they would be easy to palate. They looked bland. But this un-desire for food was disturbing. He needed protein, energy, if he was to function. It had to be the train, but he had never suffered from motion sickness, or much of anything. Hadn't Gold mentioned this malaise affecting new people? He would have to ask him—if the guy ever stopped talking. Now he was going on about joining some troupe of traveling players.

"That summer, the Wadholm Group toured the south. I eventually learned to appreciate Margaret's jugglies. They never handled cleanly, but we were happy, performing our way across the country, and the nights I spent nestled against her soft body were a time of dreams.

"We parted abruptly." Gold slammed a fist on the table, causing his coffee cup to tumble off the edge. Before it had fallen a foot, he caught it and brought it to his lips in one smooth motion. "She had cast her eye upon the leader of our group, a hairy oaf who played the flute. I saw them together, naked in the woods. He lifted her in the air in a disgusting display of animal strength. I heard her say it was a relief not to screw standing up."

Gold stopped and shook his head, as though he still couldn't believe it. He got up. "I need more mochamalt."

While Gold rummaged behind the counter, the door to the gym slid open and three women came in, looking as if they had just finished exercising, dressed in leotards with towels draped over their shoulders. One was Desmonica Rienzi, the rider of the mechanical horse. Lewis stared at her. Streaky brown hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows. Up close, she appeared to be at least forty pounds heavier than she had seemed at the performance. The three women were about the same height, but Desmonica was by far the heaviest, with beefy arms and rolls of fat showing under the thin fabric of her leotard. Lewis wondered how she could get herself onto the horse. Her costume must hold everything in.

The other two were blondish—one's hair long and straight, the other's shorter, stiff and bleachy looking. The women walked past without acknowledging him.

Gold came out from behind the counter and saw them. "Hey you violas, what's the rush?"

"Hi Garson, we didn't see you," long and straight said, but kept going. Desmonica stopped.

"I want you ladies to meet Lewis."

"We smell," long and straight said. "We'll meet him later."

"Come on, just for a few minutes. Say hello."

"I ain't stopping," short and stiff said.

Gold watched her leave. His expression seemed softer, more vulnerable somehow. Maybe he isn't so bad, Lewis thought.

The other two came over. Gold slid an arm around long and straight's waist. Desmonica stood behind her. Lewis wondered what Gold would say about their jugglies.

"Dillon just stole Lewis away from the biggest PR firm in the populous. He's a marketing genius. What do you say to that?"

"Wow, I don't know anything about marketing. What does it do?" long and straight said. She took her hand from Gold's shoulder and extended it to Lewis. "I'm Dawn, it's nice to meet you." Her rough palm surprised him. "That was Leonora who left. We ride the elephants. That's why we stink."

He found her child-like voice comforting, and he liked her soft cheeks and brown eyes. But she was right. She did stink. Waves of animal musk poured from her. Lewis breathed through his mouth, now glad of his empty stomach.

Desmonica held out her hand. Her grip was damp, her hand softer than Dawn's.

"Greetings," Desmonica said.

Her voice was throaty. She pulled her hand away, but kept her gaze fixed on Lewis, with what he assumed was supposed to be a suggestive smile. She had a butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder. At the performance he had looked forward to meeting her. But up close...she had a double chin. He looked beyond her, to Dawn, while Desmonica continued. "We should all get together and have a party, to welcome you."

Her would-be sexy tone sounded absurd. He hoped the party would never happen. Dawn left, but Desmonica stayed. "GG, have you seem my matre de telos? It wasn't in the case."

"Not since the time you fell off the horse and were laid up for a couple of shows."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure.

"I thought you took it out and cleaned it."

"No."

"I asked you to."

"Well I didn't."

"Fine then."

She left; Gold started talking immediately. "Dawn and Leonora are roommates. Dez lives alone, which works out pretty well since she can't keep her hands off me." Lewis felt relieved that Desmonica was with Gold. GG.

"Her jugglies aren't too great. Kind of flabby, hard to grip properly. Leonora's the one I'm really powered up for. Can you believe she won't talk to me?"

"They all seemed nice," Lewis said. He entered their names in his legal pad, which made him feel he had accomplished something.

"We're all responsible for our own training. We are professionals. The acrobats keep to themselves. I can tell you everything you need to know about everybody."

Lewis wondered which door belonged to Dawn and Leonora. Probably the one with the rainbow. Gold talked on and on, as if reading from a script. Lewis's attention drifted back and forth, catching bits of Gold's monologue and merging them with his own thoughts.

"Months passed in a similar fashion and the first delicate green buds appeared on the trees, bringing hope of renewal to my chilled existence."

A clear sky is always finer than a cloudy one, Lewis thought, though warm and cold weather can be equally satisfying. But the morning after a spring rain is best, when the sun emerges and the clouds dissipate. The scent of cedar and dark earth flood the breeze, each breath a renewal, all sickness temporarily banished. When would he again feel the changing seasons? He had boarded the train in winter. The thought of missing spring made him want to cry, then he remembered he was with Gold.

"She appeared so forlorn that I took her in my arms, and she sobbed upon my shoulder. Though she was my senior by six or more years, her sensuality was like a fire. We went to her house. I had never imagined I would find such perfect jugglies on a woman so old." Gold took out his yellow balls and juggled them, then looked at Lewis. "I hope I'm not going too fast for you."

Lewis shrugged. "No, this is just fine, I'm a good note taker," he said, though he had put the cap back on his pen. "But I've got to go. Appointment with the porter. He's supposed to give..."

"We found Frank Conners, now known as Blake Horton, the Ringmaster Supreme, and I joined the East-West Circus. I said good-bye to Alicia, who had lacked the resolve, before..."

Who was Alicia? Lewis heard the cook behind him in the kitchen. Food would be nice, and would distract Gold. The cook began reciting the diner menu as soon as Lewis thought about eating.

"Sometimes I perform wonders with a few basic ingredients. Locobird stew. I just use the legs, from the mature birds. Cut off the meat and marinate it in wine, cloves, pepper, garlic, and rosemary." Lewis smelled each ingredient as the cook spoke its name.

"I presented myself to Horton the Ringmaster. Nothing like Dillon. Classless. Greasy blond hair and two huge bodyguards. Told me to call him Ringmaster. Turned out his circus was just a big front for his prostitution game."

Lewis felt gripped by an odd lethargy. His neck began to ache; he tapped absentmindedly with his fingernail on the table. He yawned. Music seemed to be coming from somewhere, a cello, and a man singing a sad tune. He listened for words, catching something about a broken bottle and a woman with hair blacker than the sky. He looked around for her. Gold had left the room. The cook appeared beside him with a bowl of custard. Lewis thanked him and dipped a spoon into it. He brought some to his lips, savoring its velvety texture and orange flavor. A small man, smaller than Dillon, sat in the next booth eating a wing that had to have come from that giant bird. He nodded at Lewis. Grease smeared his cheeks. He wore a black riding helmet and a red scarf. Lewis assumed he was the man who had ridden the live horse. He thought about introducing himself, but didn't want to bother the man while he was eating. When Lewis finished the custard, he took the empty plate to the counter and left.

Chapter 8: Rebellion

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

The CIRCUS OF THE GRAND DESIGN, which has been pleasing audiences worldwide since 18??, will be performing in (town) on (date) as part of its current international(?) tour.

~

Lewis pulled the paper from the typewriter and crumpled it. What was the point? He couldn't imagine his work affecting anything Dillon did. The manager paid no attention to him. Why, he wondered again, had Dillon hired him? And...stupid stupid Lewis...they had never talked about pay. Lewis went over their first meeting. He had been caught in the moment, had wanted to show Martha that he could make career decisions. Why hadn't he established his salary with Dillon? He felt duped, and it made him mad to think about it.

It felt good to be typing though. Jenkins had brought him a list of personnel and the oldest typewriter he had ever seen. A black, metal frame, brass keys, weighing maybe twenty-five pounds. The nameplate said Americana Modern™. It looked as though it had never been used. The list of personnel showed seventeen people and their residence cars. The acrobat's names were János, Cirill, József, and Linusz. Cinteotl the cook. Floyd Perry the jockey. Gold's assistant was named Brisbane. Lewis had met or seen all but three people. Two women: Miss Linda—clown, and Bodyssia—capybara trainer, and one man: Barca—elephant keeper. He planned to look for them once he delivered the press release to Dillon. He put in another sheet and retyped what he had thrown out, then continued.

~

The CIRCUS, managed by Ringmaster Joseph Dillon, specializes in a more vaudevillian form of circus entertainment, with elephants, acrobats, jugglers, plus a mysterious, magical mechanical horse ridden by a woman who can barely squeeze into her costume. The horse is pitted against a flesh-and-blood counterpart in a masterful exhibition of equestrian beauty.

Though highly skilled on the trapeze, the acrobats' greatest forte is breaking each other's noses. The juggler, who has sex standing up, is a master at his craft, performing confidently from the inner center while obsessed with food and women's breasts. The Ringmaster operates with a metaphysical agenda known only to himself. His circus, he says, "moves in the fourth dimension—time—as a sequence of present moments flowing away to become part of the past."

~

Lewis left his room with the press release in his satchel. Let's see what kind of reaction this gets, he thought. He wasn't someone who could be manipulated. Are No had found that out, and Dillon would too.

Shouting erupted from one of the other rooms in the car, and something heavy (a body?) thudded against a door. "Don't understand Dillon's methods," Lewis said aloud. "Better be straight with me." From inside the room—crash of glass breaking, cries of pishta, and other unrecognizable words. I can break things too, he thought. He pulled out the list of personnel. That had to be the acrobat's room. He entered the car with the painted doors. The rainbow decal would be Dawn's room.

The train was deserted all the way to Dillon's office. He took out the press release and knocked. No answer. He opened the door. Last time he hadn't noticed the door on the left-hand wall, cut out of the paneling, with only a small iron latch showing. Maybe Dillon was back there. Lewis took out the press release and left it on Dillon's desk.

Well now. That was accomplishing something. He stood outside Dillon's office, looking toward what he assumed was the front of the train. So what was that way?

Like Dillon's, the next train car had one door in the middle of the hall, labeled Storage in blunt, orange letters. He opened the door and switched on a light. One large room, no windows, with several clothes racks (costumes?) on one side, and rows of gray storage lockers, some of which could have easily held several people. He lifted the latch of the nearest locker. The door stuck; he pulled harder, and it opened with a metal-against-metal scrape. Dust and shreds of fabric covered the bottom; a musty smell made him cough. The next locker held several coils of a thin, but sturdy-looking rope; another was filled with high-heeled women's shoes. The largest locker intrigued him. Was the mechanical horse kept here? He wanted to find it, see how it looked close up. This had to be it. But it wasn't. Nothing but folded trampolines.

He moved to the rack of clothes: long, white satin dress with frayed sleeves and hem, orange dress shaped like a tulip on a stem, with brown stains streaking the front, a suit made of dried leaves, short-sleeved red dress, covered in plastic, a lion pelt costume with the head attached. Except it couldn't be a lion. It looked something like a lion, but its body was twice the size of Lewis, with thick fur.

Then he saw the mannequin clothed with a chain mail shirt. He lifted the mail, finding it heavier than he had expected, made from a dull metal. Fake. A stage prop, but nice. He stroked the smooth metal after restoring it to its place. A sword hung from the mannequin's belt. Most likely another prop. He gripped the scabbard at the top and pulled on the sword with his other hand.

The blade sliced into his skin so easily that at first he felt nothing. Blood dripped onto the floor. He grabbed the hem of the tattered white dress and tore off a strip, which he wrapped around his hand.

Look at all this, ruined dress, blood on the floor. He held his hand over his head to slow the bleeding. They shouldn't leave dangerous props out where anyone can get hurt. With his left hand still in the air, he pulled the dress off its hanger and rubbed the floor. The blood left a dark smudge. He stuffed the dress into the locker with the rotted fabric.

His hand began to throb. He needed to get back to his room without being seen—didn't want to answer questions. There had to be rules. He had probably done something wrong. Outside the storage car, the lights in the hall had dimmed again, back to the orange glow. No one was in the dining car, but when he was halfway through the next car, the door on the opposite end opened. A woman entered. She tilted her head under the doorframe as she passed through. In her arms she held one of the giant guinea pig things.

Lewis hid his bandaged hand behind his back. They moved toward each other, and he began to feel as though he was shrinking with each step, until they stood about two feet apart. She was at least ten inches taller than him, with a mass of coppery hair that made her appear even taller. She filled the hallway. The throbbing in his hand worsened.

"Haven't seen you around here, buddy." Her voice was as immense as her body. She smiled, revealing an expanse of large teeth. She had a wide, square jaw and thick neck. The animal was the size of a Saint Bernard dog; she held it comfortably in her massive arms.

"I'm Lewis." It appeared that she wanted to talk. He tried to ignore the pain in his hand. He worried that it would bleed too much now that he wasn't holding it up.

"Bodyssia, and this is Fib." She lifted the animal a little higher for emphasis. "I've got three of them, but Fib's the smartest. You've seen my act."

"I saw you at the end, parading with your animals." She could probably lift him as easily as she held the animal, unless it was lighter than it looked. If he fainted, maybe she would carry him to his room.

"Fib's a capybara. From South America. He only weighs fifty-six and a half kilos. My others are seventy-two and seventy-five. You want to pet him? He likes being scratched on the top of his head."

Thinking it wouldn't be wise to say no, he rubbed the coarse, reddish-brown fur. The animal looked more like a bear than a capybara, a bear with a furry tail. It turned its head to sniff Lewis's arm, and voiced a series of clicking sounds, then whistled. It had bear-like teeth. Lewis withdrew his hand and the animal whistled again. He wondered if it could smell the blood on his other hand.

Bodyssia put down the animal. It sniffed Lewis's feet, then pawed at his leg just below his bandaged hand. Lewis wanted to push the thing's head away from him, but was afraid Bodyssia wouldn't like that. He leaned against a window, keeping his bandaged hand behind him. The animal wandered down the hall.

"A whistle like that means he likes you." Bodyssia reached toward him. Her hand was larger than a baseball glove. "He hasn't whistled like that in a long time." She pulled him into a hug, mashing his face against her breasts. "Just make sure you don't miss my next show, buddy," she said, and released him.

Once safely in his room, Lewis unwrapped the dress fabric and washed the cut. At first, he was afraid to look. It was bloody but not deep, on the edge of his palm between thumb and forefinger. He pulled the case from one of his pillows and trimmed off strips for a bandage, then swallowed three aspirin. He would find a real bandage later, and some disinfectant. He took off his pants and lay down with his injured hand propped on a pillow.

He wondered whether anyone was searching for him because of the fire. Tracing him to his apartment would have been easy. Martha would hate having to deal with the police. They might not believe she had no idea where he had gone. The thought made him smile.

Before closing his eyes, he looked up at Are No's etching. The faces on the sphinx were so sad and beautiful. He would like meet the model the artist had used. A beauty, so sad, so sweet.

Chapter 9: Explorations

A citrus bouquet, spicy and beguiling, overflowed the confined space of Lewis's room. Invisible lemon, orange, and grapefruit zest carpeted the floor. Had he been asleep? He lay on top of the covers with the wall propping his injured hand. He didn't remember turning out the light. He sat up, turning his head to find the source of the odor. A shape emerged, a woman-shape outlined by the darkness of the room, so indistinct he wasn't sure he truly saw her. The shape drew closer to him, and despite the gloom, he recognized her as the dark-haired woman he had seen at the circus. So she had been following him. But was she connected to the circus? Or to his burning of Are No's house?

He opened his mouth, but said nothing, instead watched her continue to float toward him. Her face was as haunting as those of the etching. Her long black hair, blacker than the night—at the circus he had wanted to dig his fingers into it. He looked down. That was odd—he had slid his uninjured hand beneath the elastic band of his underpants. He had never touched himself in front of a woman. What must she be thinking about him?

She stopped beside his bed. His injured palm tingled, and he reached toward her with it. She leaned over him. Warmth emanated from her. He felt himself merging with the warmth, with her. First his hands sank into her breasts, then arms, then his chest melted against her. His groin merged with her thighs and he ejaculated.

~

Lewis's name, in a voice like a song, rose from his unconscious to awaken him. For a moment he thought he saw sunlight flowing into his room, then it vanished; he doubted he had truly seen it. Sitting up in the bed, he caught a fragrant trace of citrus, but the woman was gone. He rose from bed and went to the shower.

In the hall, the lights were again bright. All the way to the dining car, as usual carrying his satchel with journal and legal pad, he felt as though he was walking upstream through an oatmeal current. The dining car was empty—not even Cinteotl was at his station. He wanted food and coffee, but didn't have the energy to fix anything himself. The coffeepot held enough for a cup. He filled a mug and sat in a booth, facing the door to the gym. A magazine with a cover showing a model sailing ship lay on the tabletop across from him. Ignoring it, he took out his journal notebook and began to write, but...He found himself unwilling to describe his previous night's experience. What could he say? Even in the privacy of his own journal any description would sound preposterous. Instead, he closed his eyes, trying to recall each detail of the woman's materialization and subsequent actions. She hadn't spoken, but her voice would be the sound of a cello.

The door to the gymnasium opened. A woman entered. He hid his bandaged hand under the table.

The woman's shoulder-length hair was light brown; the citrus woman's was black, and her body had been soft and curvy. This woman's was bony. She wore jogging shoes and a loose, sweat-soaked shirt. When she saw Lewis she gasped and started to edge back into the gymnasium. Then she stopped her sudden retreat.

"That's mine," she said in a shrill voice. She pointed at the magazine.

"Okay, I wasn't going to take it," he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. She took several quick steps forward, reached, and snatched the magazine. "Are you Miss Linda?" he asked. "I've met all the other women so I assume that's who you are, unless of course..."

"I work much too hard to associate with entertainers," she said, her voice now firm.

"Then why do you perform as a clown?" As publicist, he felt he had the right to know. She turned to leave the dining car, and he watched the backs of her ropy-muscled legs propel her away.

Lewis flipped his journal notebook closed and took out the legal pad, deciding to make a list of train cars. He drew four rectangles to represent cars, then wrote Gym in the first rectangle, Dillon's Office in the second, and Storage in the third.

How much more could there be?

He jumped up and walked through the gym, Dillon's car, and past the door marked storage. The next car had one glossy red door with the word Lounge, painted diagonally in bright blue. He walked in, expecting something spectacular, but found ugly vinyl furniture facing an antique-looking television. Opposite the television, bookcases covered the wall. In the far right corner was a door, and inside, a closet containing a washing machine and dryer. Seeing such a mundane thing gave him an odd sense of comfort.

He turned on the television. Sound came first, a fiddle, a man singing, then a wailing. A black and white picture emerged—the wailing sound came from a man's throat. Lewis had never heard anything like it. The singing/wailing man was huge, with a broad-brimmed hat. He sat on a stool holding a guitar that in his hands looked like a toy. Musicians (drummer, fiddler, a thin man playing a stand-up bass) grouped around him on a low stage. Though the television looked old, its picture was clear, with crisp definition. The big man began singing a bouncy song about a man named Fuzz Dixon, and the camera panned around, showing a dirt-floored arena surrounding the stage. A figure came into view: Bodyssia, leading her capybaras. Home movies? Jenkins carried out a burlap sack. The sack wriggled. He lowered it to the ground and upended it. A winged shape popped out—a bird as big as the one Cinteotl had been cooking. It shook itself, squawked, and spread its wings. It seemed to be unable to fly. Bodyssia's animals—couldn't be capybaras, more like awkward bears—circled the bird. The bird hissed at them. A capybarabear darted at the bird. The bird shook a wing at it and the capybarabear stopped. Another crept close from the other side. The bird flapped toward the stage and the three capybarabears converged on it.

Lewis turned off the set. Must have been an act. The bird was trained to play-fight...like a fighting rooster...very dramatic.

~

A musky stench greeted him on leaving the lounge car, a wet, animal smell that reminded him of the horseback riding lessons he had taken at summer camp when he was a teenager. Instead of rooms, the car contained two stalls. A thick layer of straw carpeted the first, and the three capybarabears sprawled, apparently asleep. Against the back wall were three large bowls filled with apples, carrots, and potatoes. The second stall contained the dirty-white horse that had raced the mechanical horse.

Lewis pulled the legal pad from his satchel and drew two new rectangles, which he labeled Lounge and Capybarabears/Horse.

The next car smelled worse, and he wasn't surprised to see the elephants. The car was at least as large as the gymnasium, with two pens fenced off from a scuffed and dirty tile floor. In one of the pens, grass carpeted the floor and an enormous tree with broad leaves spread drooping branches. Near it were two birds like the ones on the television. Distant trees jutted from a low hill. What a clever diorama. He couldn't tell where the pen ended and the background began...but they were real trees...real grass. Not a background.

The elephants lay beside a pond, the two smaller ones and the other, much larger, covered with coarse, black hair. With the grass in front of him, Lewis could pretend he was outside. He was getting used to the smell. It would have been nice to walk in there and sit under the trees. Not with elephants there, of course.

The second pen was smaller, with a floor of packed dirt. It contained a jumble of equipment: straps, buckles, padded blankets, wooden platforms mounted on wooden braces (elephant saddles?). On his growing diagram, Lewis drew a larger box and wrote Elephants.

Orange, greasy-looking stains streaked the walls of the next car. He found one unmarked door in the middle of the corridor and turned the knob. The light from the hall showed him a cord hanging; pulling it turned on a bare white bulb. The room was empty, and dust covered everything. Some of the swirls in the gritty floor looked like footprints. The dust made him cough; he closed the door and noted: Empty Storeroom in a seventh rectangle.

Next came a car that was a wide corridor, like the rounded interior of an airplane but without seats. Oval windows, cloudy of course, lined both sides. The bottom of the windows were level with his waist, as though meant to be used while seated. He wrote Passenger Car, No Seats.

He moved deeper into this new car. His mouth felt hot, and he kept swallowing and clearing his throat, trying to force out the lumpy sensation. Water would be nice. Weren't you always supposed to take a canteen when you went for a hike? In case something happened. He had the impression that the car was becoming narrower. The train couldn't extend much farther. Maybe he would find something to drink ahead. It didn't make sense for the train to have this vacant car. He imagined the train encircling the globe, hovering while the land and sea rotated beneath it. That was why he never felt motion—the train levitated, and the world moved.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, and wrote: "It goes on and on." A few yards farther on his hair brushed the ceiling.

Startled, he stepped back and looked around. Nothing. When he continued, his hair again brushed the ceiling; its curved, white surface pressed against him. The windows were now smaller, and lower than his waist, as though the whole car had shrunk proportionally. Back the way he had come—the corridor an infinitely long passage stretched to the inhabited parts of the train, and in front of him, the same. He returned the legal pad to his satchel and left it on the floor. Bending forward, he kept going and was soon on hands and knees. His injured hand began to throb again, and he tried to keep his weight off of it. His knees ached from pressing on the floor. He pulled himself along, over a surface of pitted stone, on and on, an agonizing belly crawl. He wasn't claustrophobic, but what if he got stuck? Nobody knew where he was. He didn't know where he was. This car didn't even look like the train anymore.

The ceiling pressed down; he flattened his body and squeezed through into a larger space. His hand struck air. He found himself at the edge of a canyon. At the bottom, a stream flowed, far away, too far to reach. The stream taunted him, water, clear and fresh but of no use to him. With all that inaccessible water, his mouth filled with the dust of crumbly, yellowed newspaper. His heart boomed in the narrow passage. Out out out, his heart said.

He backed frantically, blindly, continuing until he reached his satchel and lay beside it, panting.

In both directions, the corridor appeared unchanged, a simple tube with windows, stretching beyond his sight. The endless tunnel disoriented him: to his right, to his left, everything identical; he had to get away, back to familiar cars, people. Staying here was dangerous. The walls—what if they contracted before he could escape? He jumped to his feet, his satchel flapping against his side as he ran. The door was close. It would swish open, granting him escape from this tubular hell. When he neared the door, he slowed, and caught sight of a brick structure outside. The train had stopped.

So happy to be able to see the outside, he darted from window to window, absorbing everything he could: a squat, red brick building beside an empty parking lot. The sun cast a pinkish light along the tops of the clouds. On the opposite side of the corridor, a high embankment. Weeds, a few small, yellow flowers. An old tire. Even the tire made him smile.

He needed to get out there, feel the soft air on his cheeks. Leaving the diminishing tunnel car, he passed through the car containing the empty storeroom and on, into the elephant car, where he stopped, confronted by unexpected absence. The grassy pen was empty.

Gone? But where would elephants go?

The elephant saddles had been removed from the other pen. Elephants obviously taken for a ride.

Picturing them crashing through the train corridors, he laughed, an uncontrollable howl and cackle that erupted from his stomach and rose toward the misty ceiling, growing stronger and louder. Staccato scene changes: walls expand to allow passage, the wind pulling and tearing, eating, always eating, fortunes found despite this foundationless panorama, the essence of which surrounded him, inviolate and handsome. One plateau for the firstborn, a ridge for their elders. The landscape swayed beneath a pink sun. Evanescent doubts like crows flew from heights beyond reach of doom or decay. He was but a speck, even less, without support, without a tether to keep him from drifting into bewildering lacunae where the air-breathers suffer. The floor hard here, tile pavement gave him nothing, aloof in its squares of tensile.

His head met something, a tubular cushion placed to aid him, here, in his moment of need. With eyes closed, the room became a universe, and he, its lone resident. Whimpering, he grasped the tube of his cushion, snaking pillow of hollow tube, and after a time, the opened his eyes, and the tubes became a hose, the hose fastened to a faucet; he unscrewed the hose from the faucet and turned the handle. Water fell over his face.

Much refreshed, he turned off the water and sat up. This car must have an exit—elephants wouldn't be able run out through the caboose, would they? He laughed again, but softer this time.

The outer wall, across from the pens, showed the outline of a large door. Protruding from the floor near it was a lever. He pulled it; the wall-door swung down to form a ramp. Feeling freed from prison, Lewis stood at the top of the ramp, looking out at an empty parking lot. He was about to walk down when he saw coming toward him: the three elephants and a man in a red fez carrying a staff.

The man tapped the large elephant on the head with his staff, saying, "In Paladin, Clytemnestra, in Percival."

The two smaller elephants wore the saddle-platforms, the larger one nothing. "Good job today gals. Special treats, special treats for my sweet girlie-girls," the man said.

The elephants mounted the ramp. Lewis flattened himself against the wall. The elephants passed him; a phalanx of giant, shuddering beast filled his vision. The floor shook under their tread. Unable to move, unable to breathe, frozen—if he didn't move, if he remained still, so still, becoming part of the wall, mere surface, away from those terrible feet...

The floor calmed. He opened his eyes to find the fez-wearing man staring at him.

"Well well well," the man said. "Finally got me a new assistant, old one being gone always when work needs doing." He looked at Lewis, his expression stiff and unwelcoming. "Close the ramp door, boy."

Lewis forced himself to answer, his voice hoarse from thirst, from the intense relief that follows terror. "Not assistant. New publicist."

But the man had already followed the elephants into the smaller pen. Lewis ignored the order and walked away.

Chapter 10: Celebration

The press release was gone from Dillon's desk, so the manager must have been there at some point. Lewis pulled aside the red velvet curtains. Now dark outside, the lights of cars moved along a highway fifty or so yards away. The train lurched. Lewis's stomach twisted, and he grabbed a thick handful of curtain to steady himself. When he looked again the window was cloudy.

He stared at the glass for a while, then turned and left Dillon's room, hurrying through an empty gymnasium and into a dining car swarming with the entire circus crew.

Feeling as though he had been in isolation for days, the scene overwhelmed him. Everywhere, people laughing, shouting, jumping on tables. The noise was appalling; it battered at him, a sinuous force that froze him in place. He started to ease himself into the tumult. The activity here, it had nothing to do with him. The outsider, he would be invisible, could likely walk straight through the crowd without being noticed. He scanned the room, seeing the acrobats at a table, that giant Bodyssia woman at the food counter. And on registering the food counter, a world of scents paraded before him. When had he last eaten? He could get some food and take it back to his room.

A clown—Miss Linda?—sat at a booth surrounded by acrobats. She covered her head and ducked when two of the acrobats rose and leaned toward each other over the table. Lewis expected them to hit each other; instead they embraced. The scene was so outlandish—Miss Linda in long-sleeved coveralls, red wig, face painted white, and the acrobats in their gold face paint.

Between Lewis and the food counter, Brisbane juggled oranges while Gold, Dawn, and Desmonica watched. Lewis would have to pass them quickly. He hid his bandaged hand in his pocket.

Gold saw him.

"Holy Max!" Gold punched Lewis's shoulder. He had a red welt on his cheek. An accident during his act? "That was some run we had, buddy. Your PR is crackling!"

"Be right back," Lewis said. "I've got to eat something." That wasn't so bad, he thought, starting toward the counter. Now nothing between him and the food except that giant.

"I'm starved. I'll go with you," Dawn said. She tugged on his left arm, pulling the bandaged hand from his pocket. She smelled worse than she had at their first meeting. With her silver eye shadow she looked like a mannequin. It would be nice to see how she looked clean. He thought about how he had liked her when they met. Although that was before the appearance of the citrus woman. Would she join the party? He looked around the room again, wondering if he could have missed spotting her.

"Hi Sunrise," Bodyssia said to Dawn.

Lewis stayed behind Dawn, thinking it would be best to be out of Bodyssia's reach, but he had forgotten how long her arms were. She gripped his shoulder and pulled him closer.

"Hey handsome, did you like the show?"

"We've got Lewis to thank for the fabulous crowds," Dawn said.

"Well cheers to you." Bodyssia leaned over to bring her face level with his. He thought she was about to kiss him. Instead, she squeezed and lifted him. At least she smells better than Dawn, he thought as his nose pressed into her neck muscles.

She put him down and returned to her food. His sides hurt where she had held him. He would take the first thing Cinteotl offered and run back to his room with it before anything else happened. Cinteotl stood behind the counter, wiping his hands repeatedly on the sides of his apron, as if he couldn't quite get them clean enough to keep preparing food.

"The fine art of circusing is a hungry and thirsty business."

Cinteotl spoke with an odd formality that Lewis supposed he saved for special meals.

"I have cooked for all of you several hearty dishes from which you may make your choices." He pointed at the blackboard and began reading off several dishes: "marbled groundhog casserole, cephalopod with quinoa..."

"I don't know when my last meal was," Lewis said. He placed both hands on the counter to steady himself.

"And for you, grilled locobird with butterfly sauce," Cinteotl said, pointing to Lewis.

Lewis didn't have the strength to disagree

"I slipped, Cinteotl, but I caught myself," Dawn said.

"Melon for desert?" Cinteotl asked, and passed another plate to Bodyssia.

"I've got to go sit down," Lewis said. "Call me when the food's done, and I'll come get it."

Alone, finally alone, he sat at a booth, his back to the counter, willing everyone to stay away. He pulled out his legal pad and tore off the pages containing the rough diagram of the train. He would recopy it later, in his room. On paper it looked so simple. A few cars, animals. How many other people, he wondered, had gone to the empty passenger car? Was he the only curious person on the train?

One of the acrobats walked past, then stopped and spun around to face Lewis. "May you excuse me," the man said. He had a long scar across his forehead. His breath smelled like alcohol.

Lewis drew the paper closer and folded it, not wanting anyone to see what he had been doing.

"So sorry to bother you, to whom I have not yet been properly introduced, but I must have a fragment of paper. May you give?"

Lewis tore off a sheet and held it out for the acrobat, who bowed and thanked him. Then, with the acrobat gone, he unfolded the pages, but had difficulty focusing on the words. Annoyed, he turned around to see if his plate was ready. Bodyssia blocked his view of Cinteotl.

He closed his eyes, trying to visualize trees, a stream, and himself sitting on a rock eating bread and cheese, but the images were forced out by a shriek and a slap from the other side of the room. He threw his eyes open.

Desmonica stomped past him, toward the table of acrobats.

"Lumpy track!" Gold yelled after her.

The acrobat next to Miss Linda hopped up and bowed to Desmonica. With Miss Linda's path now clear, she bolted. Her red shoes, like oversized ballet slippers, slapped against the floor as she hurried from the car. Desmonica threw her arms around the acrobat.

"Hot and tasty, ready or not," Dawn sang. She deposited a plate and a glass of beer on the table, covering his diagram with the plate.

Lewis jerked the diagram out and folded it. He slipped it into the sanctity of his shirt pocket.

"I brought your food for you because you look like splat." She sat down opposite him. Her hair, which had been falling into her face earlier, was now pulled back by a leather hair band, and she had wiped off the eye shadow.

Lewis started eating without looking at his food. A few bites later his mouth was on fire. The sauce was the spiciest thing he had ever eaten. He gulped down some beer. The way he was feeling, alcohol was the last thing he wanted, but he was too tired to get water. What a mess—he finally got some food, but it was inedible. No choice though, have to eat this stuff. Dawn was eating the same thing. The spice didn't seem to bother her.

Leonora came in from the direction of the residential cars. Her hair was wet. "All clean," she said.

Lewis wished the same was true of Dawn. Leonora moved past them, toward the counter. Lewis heard Gold's voice, asking Leonora about her back.

Dawn leaned closer to Lewis and whispered. "Garson is rubbing her back."

So what? Lewis looked down at his plate and breathed in the aromas. He scraped the sauce off the meat (locobird breast?) and cut off another piece.

"He's been after her for the longest time."

The beer was already making Lewis dizzy and his eyes watered from the pepper. He wanted Dawn to leave, but she kept talking. At least his runny nose kept him from smelling her.

"It took me a while to get used to her, but now she's like a sister. I've never been able to get to know the acrobats though. They're so scary. All their wives or whatever just left them. I can't believe Dez went off with one of them."

"Are you sure all the wives are gone?" He had a sudden thought that the citrus woman could be one of the acrobats' missing wives. No...she would never have been with anyone like them.

"Remember the hamstring I pulled in rehearsal?" Gold's voice was the loudest in the room. "Didn't bother me a bit today." He slapped his leg for emphasis.

Numbness spread throughout Lewis's mouth. He finished the beer and looked around. The man he had assumed was the jockey sat at the farthest booth with his hands propping his chin. Floyd Perry, according to the roster. Across from him sat Jenkins, enveloped in a gray herringbone jacket large enough for both men. They had set up a chessboard. How could they concentrate on a game like that? Everyone else in the room seemed to be yelling at once.

He started to get up for water, but two acrobats ran by him on their hands. He sat back down. Gold and Leonora came over. Leonora sat beside Dawn; Lewis slid over to make room for Gold, but he remained standing at the end of the table, juggling three meatballs.

"Did you see all the food Bodyssia's putting away?" Gold asked.

"She's a big woman," Dawn said.

Bodyssia sat at a table with one of the acrobats. It looked like they were about to arm wrestle. Two other acrobats stood nearby, yelling what sounded like "oboe bew, oboe bew."

"How tall is she anyway?" Lewis asked.

"Six-eight," Leonora said.

"Well I'm six-five," Gold said. He tossed one of the meatballs high and caught it in his mouth.

Dawn asked Lewis something, but he couldn't hear her over the surrounding rumble of noise; she leaned over the table and repeated: "You didn't tell us what you thought of the show."

"I was great!" Gold yelled. "I juggled five torches at once." He tossed and caught another meatball.

"This was the absolute most magnificent three-day stand we've had since I've been with the circus," Leonora said.

Three days? Before Lewis could respond, wild drum music blasted out from speakers over his head. Gold jumped up onto the empty seat beside Lewis and clapped.

"Hey let's dance, Leonora. You love the National 12."

Leonora got up, and moved with Gold to the middle of the car, where they windmilled their arms to the beat. Desmonica and one of the acrobats were already dancing, bobbing their heads and clapping.

"How could it have been three days?" His head was filling with fog of some sort.

"That's a great idea, want to?" She pulled Lewis out of his seat.

"No! Can't now."

"Okay," she said. She pulled him closer and stood on her toes. She kissed him on the lips, pushing her tongue into his mouth. Though he felt nauseous from the alcohol and her smell, her kiss aroused him. Then she stopped. "Bye now."

She went to one of the acrobats and tapped him on the shoulder. They moved into the group and started swinging their arms up and down.

Back in his quiet room, alone, away from the crush of noise and bodies, relief flooded over him. The circus life was exhausting him, and he had barely started his job. He hoped it wouldn't stay that way. He didn't like always being too tired to think. He threw himself onto his bed and slept.

Part Three

Chapter 11: An Interview

Lewis felt as though he had been dreaming since he boarded the train, or perhaps even before that, watching the fire flare in Are No's house. Had he died then, caught in the fire? He might have dreamed his escape as he passed out from the smoke. But his nocturnal visitor, the citrus woman, she had to be real, even if all else was dream. Sitting at his desk with the fogged windows facing him and Are No's fishing lure dangling over his head, he tried to conjure her. He replayed her visit, noting every detail of her appearance, the way she moved, her scent. She would say something like: "I travel the north wind to a place inside you. I am the heart and the flame."

That was preposterous. Of course he had dreamed her. A real woman wouldn't show up in his room, induce orgasm, and vanish. Fucking dreaming or hallucinating. Crazy fucking place, all those acrobats and elephants. He should have stayed at the party and danced with Dawn. She was real. She had kissed him like it meant something. But these performer-types probably always acted that way. She danced with the acrobat after telling Lewis she didn't like them. None of it meant anything.

He got up from the desk and knelt on the floor. Might as well try to get in shape. Everyone else was so fit. They had to be. He was the sedentary one. He didn't know many exercises. At least his cut hand didn't hurt anymore. He would try some push-ups, right now...

Someone knocked on his door, and he jumped up to open it. Dawn, looking scrubbed in white shorts and loose navy tank top. She carried a matching navy gym bag.

"Hi there," she said in her little-girl voice. She had such a silly voice compared to the citrus woman's.

"Hi to you too." He hugged her and lowered his head to kiss her, but she pushed past him into the room.

"I'm ready to be interviewed for the program." She dropped her gym bag on his bed and stretched out beside it. "And hurry it up—I have a lot to do today."

She unzipped her bag and began to remove its contents, black leotard, tights, shirts, flipping them out and up as though trying to cover Lewis's room with a gauzy layer of her own. The tights floated to the floor near him and he caught a trace, more than a trace actually, of foot, of sweat, and overlaying all of that: elephant.

He retrieved the legal pad from his satchel and moved his chair closer to the bed.

"I've been interviewed before, you know," she said. "You're not my first." She touched his hand with her rough fingers and laughed, a throaty laugh that wasn't what he had expected from her chirpy voice. He looked at her bare arms. Funny how soft she looked but how firm everything felt. "After I won a titanium rhomboid in the Festival of Order."

She reached into her gym bag again, and he thought she was going to show him the medal. Instead, she pulled out a nearly-empty bottle of wine and two dented paper cups. She filled them with the remaining wine and dropped the empty bottle on his mattress.

"May the spotlight always grant us happiness," she said. She tapped her cup against his and drank, then sat, silent, perhaps waiting for him to ask the first question.

Before he could compose a question, she began, jutting her chin and speaking forcefully, as if not expecting him to believe her: "Nobody could touch me on the opti-vault."

Attentive to his duty, Lewis wrote opti-vault in his legal pad. He had never heard of it.

"One commentator said I was 'gracefully captivating.' But the titanium was a disappointment. I had worked all my life for the laurel wreath."

Her voice reminded him of small birds. Finches maybe. Brown finches. He had known people who kept finches in a cage in their living room. He used to watch their cat watch the birds. It would squat under the cage for hours as the birds hopped from their perches to the food bins and back. He had wanted to open the cage and let the cat have a chance.

Dawn swept her clothes back into her bag, leaving the empty wine bottle. She laughed again. He couldn't help comparing her to the citrus woman—her laugh would be much more alluring. "So I smiled and I said, 'Steve, you just relax, because this is going to be the easiest thing you've ever done.'"

Who's Steve? Her coach?

"Then I kissed him, right on the lips." She leaned toward Lewis, cupped his face in both her rough hands, and brought her lips, moist, with a taste of wine, against his.

He raised his hands to her shoulders, felt the soft skin over hard muscle, stroking the base of her downy neck. With a quick tug, she pulled him from the chair and onto the bed beside her. Her tank top had gotten twisted; one of her small breasts lay bare. He reached for it, rubbed the nipple with a fingertip, but she pushed him back onto the chair. He sat stunned for a moment—why? Still smiling, she seemed in no hurry. She straightened her top and stood. He remained in the chair with his hands in his lap, watching her. She leaned over, kissed him once more, and turned away.

"Thanks Lewis, I love to be interviewed."

~

A teacher once told Lewis that a person is born with whatever talent will one day become the focus of their life. The trick, she said, was uncovering it. For talent and career often become entangled, so that a person's choice of a career, though they might have an aptitude that carries them through it, is not necessarily their true talent. His problem was, despite college and the years following, he had yet to uncover this mythical talent. He had wanted it to be music; for years he practiced guitar without improvement. Something held him back, a blockage he could never identify. As a youth, he read books constantly (part of the dreamy boy thing that his parents didn't approve of), but at some point during high school he lost that, so when college approached, he had no interest in pursuing literature. He had gone to a moderate-sized state university with a variety of academic options. But none had drawn him. Though he had ended up with a degree in public relations, he couldn't remember the steps leading to it, and he thought it unlikely that public relations was his talent.

Why couldn't he have been like Gold, knowing from birth that his destiny lay in juggling? Not that Lewis needed to be a performer—a mathematician, that would suit, or biologist, historian, electronic appliance repair—whatever lay inside him, waiting to be discovered, he would embrace it.

~

New faces, new lives...so much newness—the train and its residents. Lewis wasn't accustomed to confronting new mystery with each person he met. And this room, this cabin with its narrow bed and fogged windows. He should leave. Wherever the train next stopped, small town or big city. Joining the circus, however necessary it seemed at the time, had been a mistake.

He had enough cash to get by for two months, maybe more. Long enough for this overwhelmed feeling to recede.

Maybe he would visit his family. He hadn't seen his parents since leaving for college. They hadn't gone to his graduation, but then, he hadn't either. Back at Are No's he had started a letter to his sisters. It was still in his journal notebook, unfinished.

Their parents were military, military doctors. He hadn't turned out the way they wanted. It had always been assumed that he would go to a military academy or, at the least, a school with an officer-training program. As a child, when he built his model airplanes, he always pictured himself in a cadet's uniform. One Saturday morning he took a model of a fighter plane out to the back yard. "I want to burn this," he told his mother.

"You can't burn a perfectly good airplane."

He looked at the plane, then dropped it on the driveway. "But the wings broke off."

His mother locked him in his room.

"He can't go around destroying representations of government property," he heard her telling his father over the phone.

"Do you know what a burn victim looks like?" his father said when he got home. Lewis was sitting on the floor playing with toy cars and didn't look up at him. His father shook him, pulled the car out of his hand. "Of course you don't." His father never waited for answers to his questions. "I treat burn victims every week. People who received their burns defending their country. Flying the same planes you took upon yourself to destroy."

Lewis didn't answer; his father shook him again, picked him up and pushed him down, against the bed, then left the room. After that, Lewis never played with military toys. When he refused to go to the college his parents chose for him, they told him they wouldn't pay for his education.

He was always surprised, on meeting the parents of friends and girlfriends, that other families weren't like his. During college, he spent several holiday breaks with George Yeow and his family. George had been his roommate for two years in the dorms, and another two sharing a decaying house with several other students. Holidays with George's family were always a warm-hearted whirlwind of conversation and eating. Maybe they were warmer because they were immigrants, because they understood the precariousness of life. Lewis's family had been in the U.S. since the 1840s. His parents exhibited a blind patriotism that didn't allow for any uncertainty.

One of the reasons he had not wanted to remain with Martha after they finished college was her parents. They had never liked him. She was from one of those declaration of independence families that never married anyone out of their class. They tolerated him, knowing it unlikely that he and Martha would ever marry. He always pictured her mother with her perfect coiffure, sitting back in a plush armchair after a day's arduous socializing, listening to Muzak. Her parents were probably happy now that he had left their daughter, though they wouldn't be pleased with the scandal, the shame of his arson and flight.

And Martha, she would now have to admit to her parents that their view of Lewis had been vindicated. Poor dear, so wrong about the bad rubbish boy. Her rigidity and anger came from her parents. Maybe if she had broken with them, like Lewis had with his...

The people of the circus probably thought of each other as family. He didn't think he would ever be able to share in that.

Chapter 12: A Map

Dillon sat at his desk with his face bent over a foot-thick, hardbound book. He thumped it shut and looked up at Lewis. "There you are. Weaving yourself into the fabric, I trust?"

"Sure. I just wanted to ask you about some things." Lewis turned his head to see the title of the book, but Dillon's hand blocked most of it. All he could make out was Monoli...and...scape. Dillon opened a drawer, and with some effort lowered the immense book into it.

Lewis took the seat opposite him. "I've been exploring the train." He watched Dillon for a reaction. None came. "I found a storage room, and a lounge, and the animals, but then things get a little hazy."

Dillon's eyes glowed their familiar blue. They made Lewis edgy; he looked down as he spoke. "I found this empty passenger car and walked through it; eventually it seemed to get smaller and smaller until I was on hands and knees."

"Vehicles perform better if they are designed aerodynamically. A pointed object moves more smoothly than a blunt object. Inherent in structure, but resonating—"

Impatient, Lewis interrupted. "I understand aerodynamics, I just didn't realize I was walking through a nose cone."

Dillon opened another drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. He began writing on it. Taking notes on the conversation?

"So where does the driver sit?" Lewis was again having trouble saying everything he had planned. "I also wanted to make sure you got the press release. And...I somehow missed a performance. I was wondering if—"

"Splendid. Progress keeps an organization like ours moving swiftly forward, in arcs of ever-increasing complexity." Dillon spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. "We draw near a cycle of heavy involvement. The sun will rise soon on the false and the fair."

~

Lewis wanted isolation. The acrobats were in the dining car, but they would likely pay no attention to him.

"A plate of your best," he said, before Cinteotl could begin his culinary description. He sat and looked at his food, a bowl of gray mush with bits of meat. Yes, he should leave, flee this train of strange food and stranger people. He ate a spoonful of the mush, which had a strong, fermented taste.

Two of the acrobats began shouting. One stood and slapped the other. They flung themselves out of the booth and rolled on the floor, fighting, savagely gouging and pummeling as if they were the bitterest of foes. The nose of the acrobat with the long scar across his forehead began spurting an amazing amount of blood, and the two noncombatants separated them, shouting "no recrudescence."

The former antagonists repeated "no recrudescence" and embraced. Cinteotl brought them a towel for the scarred acrobat's nose and a bottle of clear liquor. The acrobats clinked their glasses and began singing.

Lewis left the remains of his mush and returned to his room. On the way, the hall lights dimmed, simulating dusk.

~

Faint music, the song Lewis had heard in the dining car, came from somewhere. The cello and the singer with the sad voice. The cloudy windows glowed more orange than usual, soothing but not soporific. Leaving the lights off, he sat at his desk and thought about the citrus woman. Maybe he would ask Cinteotl for oranges, to lure her back. Twice now he had seen her, and that was enough, apparently, to spark an obsession. Dark and deep, her eyes held the secrets of the world; her ageless face haunted the night. With each of her gliding steps toward him, that night, he had moved equally closer to her. Recalling her visit gave him a sudden erection.

Again, he thought of leaving. He would avoid the circus crew, get food in the mornings, or whatever felt like mornings in this train with no sunshine, stay in his room, bags packed and ready to leave next time the train stopped. He pulled his backpack out of the closet and began stuffing clothes into it. But he needed to see the citrus woman again before leaving. He could search for her while waiting.

Leaving clothes scattered, he took out the diagram he had made during his exploration and tore off a clean sheet of paper. He added the four residential cars, the dining car, and sketched an elephant, horse, and three capybarabears. The residential cars each had three rooms. Should he knock on doors to see who lived in them? He sat staring at the clouded windows, imagining stars passing beyond the gray-orange wall. Something nagged at him. He slapped the desk, trying to remember. He would have to ask Jenkins for a list. Idiot—Jenkins had already given him one, a sheet with everyone's names and rooms, when he brought the antique typewriter. Lewis dug through his satchel. There, crumpled at the bottom. Now he could label the residential cars.

Someone rapped on his door. Please, not Dawn again. He considered not answering. But what if it was the citrus woman? He hid the train diagram and list of personnel under his journal notebook and went to open the door. Leonora stood in the hall with a piece of paper in her right hand and a coffee cup in her left. She looked up at him, not frowning but not smiling either.

"Yes?" He kept himself in the door. He didn't want her to see that he was packing. And he wasn't going to interview her.

She held up the piece of paper. "Résumé. I don't have time for no interview for your whatchacallit."

Her harsh voice was so unlike the citrus woman's. He wondered how Gold could like this person. And her stiff hair. That couldn't be her real hair color. But her face, if she smiled and you imagined long, dark hair, soft like a cat's, she could be beautiful. Her body was probably as hard as Dawn's. Harder. At least Dawn was sweet. Leonora probably collected hunting knives. He had known a woman in college—they had gone out a couple of times—who liked knives. He didn't stay with her long enough to find out what she did with them.

"You takin' this thing or what?" Leonora shook the résumé at him.

"Okay, sure." He took the sheet. "If I need something else I'll let you know, okay?"

"Lemme use your can, this coffee goes right through." She pushed him out of her way. "Lookit all this crap. You heard of cleaning?"

"I was in the middle of reorganizing." He hoped that would satisfy her. He squatted by the backpack and folded a shirt. She came out of the bathroom and left without saying anything else.

~

"Leonora Lynn Fields," the first line of the resume said in Copperplate Gothic, an elegant but overused typeface. He wondered why she didn't use a stage name, something catchy like Desmonica Rienzi. "Education: Master of Kinesiology" from some school he hadn't heard of. "Dancer, Pegasus Company." He dropped the sheet on his desk and uncovered the diagram and list of personnel, then filled in the names of the appropriate cars.

Look at that—all rooms and people accounted for except the one next to his. He would try that door first.

The metal knob had a tarnished pewter sheen. It felt stiff and clicked repeatedly when it turned, like a combination lock. The door opened with a pop, and a puff of damp air blew out, a mulchy, spring-like scent. He peered into a darkness that the light from the hall couldn't penetrate and groped for a light switch; the inside wall felt rough, like a tree trunk. Something brushed his hand. Startled, he jerked back, but it was only a pull-string for the light. The light revealed a circular space, about ten feet in diameter with white walls, floor, and ceiling. The door curved on the inside to conform to the shape of the walls. The white walls had a shimmering quality, as though made from a translucent material. He stepped inside, shutting the door to keep anyone from noticing, and drew the room on his diagram.

When he looked up from his legal pad the walls and ceiling had disappeared. Ahead of him, he saw only misty white light. He turned all the way around; each direction was the same. He had no idea how to find the door. The air in the white space was warm and moist against his cheeks. He stepped into the white mist, walking at a measured pace. He would have to reach another wall eventually.

Hiking had always calmed him, taking a backpack and walking the trails for a few days, a week. He had never had the time to stage an extended trip—that was what he would do when he left the circus. How long since his last hike? Before Martha. A city girl, she hadn't liked the outdoors. She spent all her time arranging meetings with friends. He had fallen into the rhythm of her life, the events, the dinners with whomever was next on the schedule, and along the way gave up the outdoors. That had been part of what sent him to Are No's. But moving to the city hadn't been a mistake. Though it wasn't his kind of place, it held so much, art, grit, life. He might return there someday. It was large enough to hide in; he could easily avoid the kinds of places Martha would frequent. The main thing was being able to escape to the countryside when necessary. Difficult without a car, but trains led everywhere. Including, of course, Point Elizabeth. That was a direction he wouldn't be trying soon. He wondered what was happening there right now. Maybe they wouldn't even be looking for him. The man at the diner would say he had asked about the phone—that proved his innocence.

A curved doorway stood in the wall opposite him. He opened it and stepped into the hallway of the train car.

Chapter 13: Advice on Love

Lewis's shirt hung damp under his arms and down the sides. He leaned against the wall. All that limitless white space...his throat was a dry, scaly thing. So stupid of him, he knew better than to hike without food and water. Ahead of him, the crazy snake of the train stretched on toward forever, but his door was close, and inside, respite. He set off, swaying as he walked, but before he could reach his haven, the doors to the next car swished open to reveal Gold, carrying a briefcase.

On seeing Lewis, Gold let out a whoop. Ignore the fool, Lewis thought. Don't let him in. He nodded a greeting and tried to get to his door before Gold could reach him.

"Hey guy. Been looking for you I don't know how long."

Gold followed him into the room. Did no one respect his privacy? Lewis was too tired to care what Gold thought of his clothes on the floor or the open backpack. In the bathroom he filled a glass at the sink and drank it down. When he came back, Gold had plopped cross-legged in the middle of his bed. It was a position that had always annoyed Lewis, mainly because whenever he tried it himself his legs quickly became numb.

Gold had started talking about Leonora, describing a moment during a past performance in which she fell from Percival the elephant. "Some dog-ass threw a bottle..."

Lewis wondered what would be that fastest way to get Gold out of his room. He wanted to rest and eat, not listen to some lovesick prattle. He looked up at his etching: Cybele Confronts the Magma. Who was Cybele? Such a musical sound. That must be the citrus woman's name.

"You may not believe this, but Leonora is the first woman who hasn't fallen for me immediately." Gold stopped talking and seemed to expect a comment.

The first? Or just the first he's admitting to. Did women find his knobby nose and big ears attractive?

"I am of course mainly referring to the period after I became an accomplished performing artist with the confidence in art and self accompanying my success. Sometimes I feel like I've been chasing her forever and never catching up."

Like the search for Cybele. But finding her will be a greater reward than Gold's Leonora. Such an unappealing person. He should show Gold her résumé.

"I had been here for at least a cycle when she arrived, with a retinue—two men in that state of physical health that proves an innate lack of intelligence. The train departed without them, though they had meant, so I heard, to join our crew. I immediately knew this was an omen."

Cybele, a woman of the spring, of orange blossoms. He needed her. Martha had been winter, cold and unforgiving. Spring was his season. His birthplace.

"I'm sure I can trust you." Gold snapped open the briefcase. "I've never shown this to anyone."

He pulled out a book, holding it so Lewis could see the dust jacket: Glory of the Flat-Chested Woman. The cover art was a black and white photo of a woman from waist level. Tank top, long, wavy hair, and a python wrapped around one arm.

"I saw it in a bookstore just before joining the circus. I fell in love with the woman on the cover. And the other pictures of her are wondrous. I had to have it. When Leonora arrived, I knew it was her, even though the name in the book is 'Grail.'" Gold rested the book in his lap, caressing the cover photo for a moment before continuing.

"Now, as I said, retinue, sign, dot, dot, dot, but unfortunately I had just become embroiled in a messy affair with Desmonica that has only now played its course. I find myself in the heretofore foreign situation of desiring a woman only half interested in me. You may not believe this, but I'm desperate."

He stood and began pacing. Five steps...turn...five steps...turn. "So what do I do? I've seen the effect you have. Everyone's talking about you. Even Bodyssia."

Talking about him—why? His heart raced. What were they saying? Leonora must have reported his packing. And Dawn could be saying anything, telling everyone that he was coming on to her. He looked back at his etching. Cybele. He didn't care about Gold's stupid crush. "I have to find her."

"This minute?" Gold stopped pacing. "I think she's rehearsing with Barca. What are you going to say?"

No, find Cybele you dolt. He couldn't believe he had said that aloud. What kind of advice could he give, anyway? "I meant you have to find her." Gold ran to the door.

"No, not literally go and find her now. Find who she is as a person." That sounded pathetic, but Gold, nodded and wrote it down. What else could he say? "Do nice things for her. Show a sincere interest. Share something with her that you haven't told anyone else. But don't brag." No way Gold could follow that one. Bragging was like breathing for him. Now, let him go. Good.

~

All Lewis wanted was a few hours sleep. Before Gold had finished closing the door, he flopped stomach-first onto the bed and closed his eyes. What were people saying about him? Maybe he should have asked Gold. He turned onto his back. Cybele, if that was the citrus woman's name—she must talk to someone. After he rested...but now he couldn't rest. Too many questions buzzed through his head, and Cybele's face floated above everything.

He slipped on his sweat pants and a shirt and hurried to the dining car. Now, he wanted to see another person, but no one was there, not even Cinteotl. At least there was coffee in the carafe. He took it to a booth and sat down. Cybele should stop teasing him. She had to be close—why not show herself?

It was so hard, being here alone. He put his head down on the table and closed his eyes. No one real to talk to. Maybe it would help if he tried to do some interviews. Work would keep him busy, would prevent them from suspecting his plan to leave. Didn't want to get near the acrobats though. No interview, make something up about them. They had enough already. And everyone talking about him. What could they be saying? He hadn't done anything.

Lewis woke up, startled. Cinteotl had come in and started clattering pans and pounding something. Lewis couldn't believe he had fallen asleep at the booth. How long had it been? The cook might bring him something inedible. He lowered his head again.

The pressure of somebody rubbing his shoulders awakened him. He looked up. Desmonica. Had she been one of the ones talking about him? She stopped rubbing, but kept a hand in his hair. She was giving him her usual pathetic attempt at a seductive smile. "I would love to cut your hair sometime, Lewis."

"Okay." Not her. Not without someone else there to make sure she didn't slip and cut an artery.

"I can't now. I'm on my way to the pool."

"There's a pool?" He looked at her again, this time noticing her billowy green skirt and matching bikini top. She wasn't someone who should be wearing a bikini. All that flab, her fleshy breasts, but at least she wasn't hard, like Leonora.

"Don't you know anything?" She started walking toward the gymnasium.

"I need to see it." Even if it meant being with her. He got up to follow.

"I'll be busy doing my laps. Performers have to maintain their fitness you know."

Want to see the damn pool, not your flabby ass. If she got that figure by maintaining fitness, he didn't want to see what happened when she did nothing.

"After your swim, I can interview you for the program." He might as well make a pretense of work—if they were talking about him, it would get around.

"Oh, I suppose. You sure are pushy."

He glanced at the tattoo on her shoulder, a wasp, not a butterfly. As they left the dining car, Cinteotl waved his cleaver at them and pointed to a large squash on the counter beside him. Squash would be good later. Stay away from fermented slop though.

In the gym, Miss Linda sprinted around the jogging track. Lewis waved to her but she didn't respond. When they reached the lounge, Desmonica took him to the laundry room; at one end was a narrow door that he had assumed was a storage closet. She opened it. A wrought iron circular staircase led to a room about the same size as the lounge. The rectangular pool was about thirty feet across, with a green-tiled bottom and a tile walkway around it.

Lewis lay on a lounge chair and looked up at the ceiling—a skylight, cloudy like all the windows. The legal pad was still in his satchel; he pulled it out and wrote: pool above lounge. He would modify his train diagram later.

Desmonica dove into the pool. He closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic slapping of her arms and legs. So far from home now, worlds away from his life with Martha. "You need to do something interesting so you can tell me about it," Martha had demanded of him a few months ago. He was lying on their couch. Not knowing what to say, he had stared at the ceiling.

"You bring nothing to this relationship," she said.

"I was supposed to bring something?" She had left then, stomping out in her work boots and slamming the door.

She should see him now, see this crazy train and all the people on it. He was glad he had left her to face the investigation into Are No's fire. Maybe the two of them would get together. Are No's insurance would pay for a new, even more hideous beach house, though still with no heat for guests. They would sit on Project Poseidon II drinking wine and making nasty comments about him.

How long would Desmonica be swimming? Tired of waiting, he went down to the lounge for a book. He pulled out one with a yellow spine—Historical Development of the Calculus—and flipped through the pages. He was about to put it back when a diagram caught his attention. Something about parallelograms and instantaneous velocity vectors. Maybe that was what Dillon used to drive the train. That was it—-mathematics—this book, other books, would tell him everything. First, he could make his diagram of the train accurate. Those immense rooms. Wasn't there some way to measure things like that by taking sightings and angles? The preface said that calculus was the principle quantitative language of Western science. He needed something definite like that.

Walking back to his seat by the pool, he stepped on something soft, and looked down. Desmonica's bikini top. She was about a third of the way across, swimming on her back. He stood at the end of the pool, staring at her. She looked better in the water. Harder to see the fat. He didn't think she had been naked when he left.

He sat back on the lounge chair and opened the book. Chapter one was about Babylonian and Egyptian geometry...the fertile crescent...A=7/9d^2. He read on: "The priests of Cybele could calculate the volume of a prism." The same Cybele depicted in his etching? He wondered who she had been. Maybe that wasn't the citrus woman's name after all. But her lips were the banks of the rivers. He would have to wait for her to explain. He looked over the book at Desmonica, now swimming on her stomach. Funny how she could swim for so long and still be fat. "The concept of area is inherently more complicated for curvilinear surfaces in space than it is for plane regions."

Desmonica's curvilinear surfaces had considerably more area than anyone else's on the train. Oh no, she was getting out—all that naked flab at once. She walked up the pool steps; her breasts rose and fell as she caught her breath. She had transformed, rolls of fat gone, melted away in the water.

"I just can't get enough swimming," she said, her words an out-of-breath gasp. She threw herself on the deck chair beside his and lay on her back with her eyes closed.

Impossible for swimming, or anything, to take weight off so quickly. Hadn't she been fat on their way to the pool? He looked at her sleek legs, stomach, breasts, arms.

"I get this great feeling, like I'm floating in the air, if I just concentrate on my stroke." She raised her arms and pantomimed a swimming stroke. He watched her breast bob with the movement of her arms. Would it be okay to touch her? Not in a sexual way, no interest in that with her, but...was she real? She must be taking some kind of weight loss steroid. He looked away, wishing she would put her clothes back on.

"Excuse me, Mr. Publicist Person." He turned his head until he could see her. She had lowered the back of the chair and was lying down with her arms raised, as though reaching for something above her. "Aren't you supposed to ask me questions now? I've got a busy schedule, you know."

He flipped to a new page. "Do you know anything about the mechanical horse, where it's from?"

"No." She dropped her arms and turned onto her left side, away from him.

Stupid—one of the first rules of interviewing he had been taught was not to ask yes/no questions. The wasp on her shoulder had black wings with a red body. Another tattoo began at the base of her spine, the outline of a sun with jagged rays. He reached toward it with his right hand...real sun, the smell of grass and earth...

"Okay then. Gold said you started out as a dancer, tell me about—"

"Did you have to mention that stickhead?"

"I'm sorry, I forgot you two had been involved. What type of dancing was it?"

"Where are you from? I had a scholarship. I studied under some of the world's finest ethnographers." She popped up from the chair, kicked it back a few feet, and did a handstand. Then, still on her hands, she lowered her legs into a split and walked her body around so that her crotch was in front of his face. The dark mat of hair drew him. He leaned closer, experiencing, with a suddenness that startled him, both an erection and the desire to push his tongue into her.

She lowered her legs and sat beside him on his chair. "Now hey"—she waved a finger at him—"how much of this stuff are you going to print? I haven't told János about when my parents died in a zoot crash and I had to have sex with their sleazy estate lawyer."

Haven't told your interviewer yet either, lady. "János is your new boyfriend, one of the acrobats?"

"The best of the acrobats. So strong, yet gentle. Never violent, or loud, and he truly cares for me as a person instead of a vehicle for sexual favors. Of course that doesn't mean we haven't had sex, because we've had great sex."

Her eyes half-closed with either exhaustion from her swim or her feelings for János. Never violent or loud. So she must have a high pain threshold. Or likes it that way. Damn circus people...no, it wasn't them—he was a prude, a sedentary fool who settled with a woman despite incompatibilities, instead of sailing off on life's adventures. Well, that's what he was doing now. His urges regarding Desmonica's exposed vagina—he had never done that with lips or tongue. Fingers yes, but the other, the idea of it had always disgusted him. Prude. That described his past, but no longer.

Without saying anything, he left Desmonica in her János-rapture and headed for the dining car. He had to eat something, no matter how strange. His last good meal had been the locobird stew, or whatever it was. Why didn't Cinteotl make something like that again? Lewis could think of nothing but food—acres of barbecued chicken, tables covered with lasagna. Chips and guacamole. Lentils.

In the distant recesses of the gymnasium Bodyssia was lifting weights, with her broad back toward him. He wanted to exercise too, be strong like these circus people.

Cinteotl stood behind his counter. "Highland squash cake, nutritious and delicious. Vitamin A, vitamin C, calcium, iron, fiber, protein, antifungaloids." He handed Lewis a plate and plopped a gray-white rectangle onto it. The cake was browned and crisp on the edges, glutinous inside with chewy reddish bits. Lewis forced himself to eat all of the rectangle. It didn't taste like any squash he had ever had. Probably best not to ask what the reddish bits were. At least it wasn't as bad as the fermented slop. He doodled on a blank page in his legal pad, drew an awkward picture of the mechanical horse. Too bad Desmonica didn't know anything about it. Not surprising though. The people here only knew what was in front of them. Finding out about the mechanical horse interested him more than getting to know these new companions of his, these performers. He would try Floyd Perry. If Perry took care of his own horse, maybe he was responsible for the mechanical one as well.

Chapter 14: Metal

"So who the hell are you?" Perry's voice was small, like his body, with a raspy edge. Lewis introduced himself from the doorway. The room had the clean, hard scent of metal, and the mustiness of old books. Returning to his work, Perry picked up a hammer and hunched over a small anvil on his metal desk; he banged on a sheet of brass. Metal racks held rolls of foil-like metals, copper, brass, and aluminum. Beside the neatly made bed, the sheets looking tight and firm as the rolls of metal, was a gray safe that served as a nightstand. Books were piled beside the safe, their warmth out of place amongst the metal. Perry put down the hammer, placed the beaten sheet against the cover of a hardback book, and bent it over the edges to form a solid shell. He lifted the book and held it out, then brought it closer until the cover was about an inch from his eyes. The gleaming metal reflected his thin, pinched face.

"It will soon tarnish," he said, "but so do we all."

"Is this metal for your act with the mechanical horse?"

"A success such as this demands a drink." Perry took tin cups from a drawer, blew into each, and polished them on his pants leg. "Bourbon?" He filled a cup for Lewis.

Lewis looked around the room, seeing other metal-covered books and some without. "The metal. Did you make the mechanical horse?"

"I take care of Gautier. The finest Camarque horse ever bred."

"Don't you fix it when parts wear down?"

"Not allowed to touch the thing." Perry picked up the book again and opened it to the middle. "The horse is Dillon's province. He fetches it and puts it back and locks it up. All very hush hush."

Perry had to know more than he said. The questions always led back to Dillon. "Then what's the metal for?"

"Can you imagine a world without books? I've seen one. Right now it's metal jackets, but what I really want to do is print the world's classics on paper-thin sheets of brass."

"I'll have to go talk to Dillon again."

"You think they would be too heavy?" Perry clanged his cup onto the metal top of his desk. "They're already heavy with the weight of their own profundity, with the weight of their beauty. I want them to stand firm for all times."

"Doesn't anyone give a straight answer around here?"

Perry pushed the newly brassbound volume into his hands. Lewis looked down at his reflection in the cover, unsure what Perry wanted him to do with it.

"Some worthy things are recognized in their own lifetime. Rare, but wonderful happenings." Perry lowered his voice to a whisper. "One such is the book in your hands."

Lewis opened it and started to read the title page aloud.

"Be quiet," Perry said. He went to the door and looked out into the hall. "Can't be too careful." He came closer to Lewis and whispered up at him. "Put it in your satchel. Don't show anyone. Only take it out in your room."

When Lewis slipped the book into his satchel, he noticed the calculus text. He took it out and opened it to the first chapter. "You see this reference to the priests of Cybele—do you know who she was?"

"I'd stay away from that one. Unless you want to end up like Attis." Perry made a chopping motion with his hand.

What did he mean? And who was Attis? He started to ask, but a lump in his throat kept him from speaking. The warning shouldn't be ignored. Perry was the most lucid person he had met on the train. But his Cybele wasn't a threat. Not to him anyway. He picked up his satchel. His hands were shaking. It's the bourbon. Wasn't used to hard liquor.

Perry opened the door again. "Come on now, I'm showing you Gautier." Lewis followed him down the hall but when they reached the dining car, he stopped.

"I'm sorry, can't. I feel faint." He sat at the closest booth and put his head down, using his satchel as a pillow. He didn't care what Perry thought. Far away, he heard the door on the other end open and close.

~

Lewis woke with his cheek against the gray window. His head throbbed, his throat was a contracting tube of raw flesh. The sun baked his skin to pink, to red, to a peeling dead brown. He looked up; no sun here, but the whiteness of the ceiling burned through him. It had been cold and rainy at Are No's, sunny the next day when he went to the circus. Nothing around him now but gray windows. How long since he had seen the sun?

He got up and splashed his face at Cinteotl's sink. The cook placed a hand on his shoulder. "Boiling water for root tea, fix you up right away."

Cinteotl knows what's wrong. He'll help. Lewis sat back at the booth and watched Cinteotl fill a teapot. Had the cook been in the room the whole time Lewis slept? Cinteotl brought him the pot and an empty mug. He filled the mug, and steam floated into Lewis's face. The smell bothered him. Strong and smoky.

"Hard for everyone at first. Harder for you. Drink the whole pot. Then you'll be better."

That was the most Cinteotl had ever said to him. Lewis looked up at his face, grateful but unable to respond. Cinteotl smiled and walked back to the kitchen.

Lewis blew into the mug to cool the tea. It tasted like dirt, but he drank it. Maybe the train was going south, to a better climate. The thought made him happy. It would be a beautiful, sunny day at their next stop. The tea spread a warmth through his body.

On the table, the brassbound book had slid out of his satchel. He was about to look at it, but remembering Perry's demand for secrecy, he pushed it back in. He took out his legal pad. Several typed pages protruded; he started reading.

In a style unique to the Circus World (though from The Circus of the Grand Design, unique is the norm), our elephant artists, one an experienced modern dancer and the other a titanium medal winner in the opti-vault, stretch the bounds of performance with acrobatic displays while on the backs of their ponderous beasts.

The elephants are trained by the incomparable Ham Barca, to whom it has been said, the elephants react as if to one of their own kind. Barca has been...

He stared at the paper. When had he written this? The words had a certain lucidity and elegance. It had to be his writing. There were handwritten notes on the next few pages. Lewis's handwriting. It appeared to be an interview with Barca.

About the elephants: "Both Clytemnestra and Percival are Indians. Paladin is African, from the Mountains of the Moon, from a race of the most heroic creatures on the planet. Raised him from a pup, and only I can touch him." The big, hairy one must be Paladin. Where were the Mountains of the Moon?

About Barca: "I was born in an elephant stable, so I've had, from birth, an affinity with these beasts." (Why born in a stable?) "My father was a general, my mother a slave, though of noble birth from a conquered northern land. As the illegitimate son, I lived under the care of my father's elephants." Did they rock him to sleep in their trunks? Teach him to read? He pictured the hairy elephant doing long division on a blackboard, holding a stick of chalk in its trunk. "My life might have been different had my brother not been born, for then my illegitimacy could have been overlooked. But Cybele smiled upon my father, and he had many children..."

Cybele again. Did everyone know about her? The Cybele Barca and his calculus book referred to must have been some sort of goddess. But what did that have to do with his citrus woman? The encyclopedias in the lounge would have an entry.

Chapter 15: Movies

Walking to the lounge he felt weak, but better. Cinteotl's tea had done something. He wished it had been given to him when he first arrived. On the way in the door, he thought he felt a breeze, but the windows were gray as usual. A real breeze would be so nice. He went to the shelves. B for Babylonia, C for Cybele. Their weight strained his arms. Still weak, no way he would be able get them back to his room—he would rest here, but the couch looked so far away, across acres of swamp and mist. He took a step toward it and his dizziness returned. Emptiness to either side. A murky corridor. Nothing below. Nothing above but infinity. Was the tea's benefit wearing off already?

When he reached the couch he threw himself down and closed his eyes. A crash of cymbals made him re-open them. The television had turned on.

~

In a narrow room with a low ceiling, a fireplace and a candelabrum casts a flickering light. A dark-haired man stoops over several bits of metal on a wooden table. On the soundtrack, a symphony plays. The man assembles the pieces of metal and steps back. Strings play a happy tune and a dark-haired girl, fourteen or so years old, rushes out from a doorway behind the man.

"Father, father, we'll be late for the festival!"

~

Lewis watched bemused, but when he saw what the father was holding, a horse, a finely detailed metal horse about the size of a kitten, he jolted to attention. Now he was fully awake. It was hard to tell on the black and white set, but the horse looked identical to Dillon's—a silvery body reflecting light from the candles, brassy hoofs, and a hair-like mane and tail.

~

The man places the horse on the table, and it trots across. Its movements are jerky. The girl squeals and runs around the table to receive the horse when it reaches the other side.

"It is so heavy father!" The horse's legs stop moving when she picks it up. "So wonderful!" She lifts it to her face and kisses the metal.

~

Lewis stared at girl, younger, but the same hair, eyes...She had to be Cybele.

~

The girl puts the horse back on the table. It trots toward her father, but stops partway there. The father picks it up and adjusts something. They repeat the trotting across the table routine as the stringed instruments play.

~

Cybele and the horse—why hadn't he known they were connected?

A new scene unfolds in an outdoor bazaar. The camera bobs and darts through the crowd before closing on the father and daughter.

Though disappointed that they weren't carrying the horse, Lewis was thrilled to be able to watch Cybele and her father.

~

A man emerges from the shadow cast by a fat man eating sausage and walks toward them. The music has become ominous. The man has a short black beard and wears loose-fitting black cloth. The father tells Cybele to buy herself some marzipan. The man speaks...

~

The villain. Lewis was catching the clues in this too-obvious melodrama. "So now he'll threaten the father with something or other," he said aloud. The story though, something familiar about it.

He opened encyclopedia C.

~

"Cybele [sib'-uh-lee] is revered for her beauty and feared for her jealousy. She controls fertility and untamed nature. Her young consort, Attis, symbolizes immortality. Before his death he castrated himself out of devotion to her and violets sprang from the ground dampened by his blood."

~

Lewis's mouth was dry. So that was what Perry had meant by his chopping motion. His Cybele wouldn't demand such a forceful expression of devotion. And he wouldn't mutilate himself for her, or anyone. Attis was a fool.

~

"Worship of her culminates in an orgiastic state transcending physical pain. A joyful spring celebration honors her and commemorates the death and resurrection of Attis."

~

He was Attis. Cybele had lured him to the circus to be reunited with him. A warmth spread through him now that he had acknowledged his place in her life.

The camera switched back to Cybele. It made sense that she had been a child actress. She had obviously been involved with the entertainment business from an early age. She had invested in the circus with money from her acting. She was Dillon's partner. The scene shifted to the father and daughter back in his workroom. A larger mechanical horse, about the size of a collie, walked beside the table. Its movements were slower than the smaller one's, but more fluid. The girl was older now, seventeen or eighteen. He couldn't believe how beautiful she was.

~

The door to the workroom bursts inward. The dark-clothed man enters with two other men. "You must pay in kind if not in currency." The dark-clothed man sneers and looks toward Cybele, who is clinging to her father.

The screen fades, and in the next scene Cybele is washing a fat man's soft feet. More cymbals crash and a wailing chorus chants in the background.

~

Lewis couldn't watch, couldn't stand to see Cybele's pain. But she was here, she must have escaped.

~

The chanting chorus continues; the scene shifts to the father working on the body of a life-size horse, then back to the fat man's bedroom.

Her father had to save her. That's why he was making the horse. Now Lewis recognized the story: the film was a retelling of the fairy tale. He had forgotten about the mechanical horse, made by the father to save the daughter and carry her away. The fat man tore off Cybele's clothes. Lewis stared at her naked body, the body he wanted to lie with every night. She picked up a brass candlestick and cracked it over the fat man's head. The mechanical horse carried Lewis up a steep slope to a cliff overlooking a starlit desert. When the horse stopped at the edge of the cliff, Lewis leapt from its back and into the air, but had trouble staying aloft. Sinking, gliding, arms outstretched, the desert floor drew closer. He landed on his feet but tumbled forward into the soft sand. Brushing himself off, he walked up the steps of the caboose and into the train.

Chapter 16: Missed Performances

"Didn't know you were the athletic sort," Bodyssia said, glancing back over her shoulder at Lewis. In a far corner of the immense gymnasium car, she sat on a stool performing an arm flexing exercise. Grunting, she gripped the handles of a metal bar and brought them together, apart again, together. Her flexed biceps looked bigger than his thighs. She released the bar and let her arms hang limp. After a minute or so she stood, a gradual unwinding of her long body, and Lewis took a step back, feeling suddenly insignificant beside her.

"Divisional crush, ablets, and I'm done." She clenched the handles of a nearby pair of rods that extended from the wall. Bracing her feet against a rubber thing on the floor, she pulled, first with her right hand, then her left. Her cheeks turned pink.

Lewis sat on the stool, its seat still warm from her body, and stared at a maze of thick rubber bands and levers. Guessing, he flipped a lever, and it released the tension on the rubber bands. He removed the thickest and tightened the lever. Copying Bodyssia, he gripped the ends of the bar and tried to bring them together, but could only push them partway. He levered off two more bands. It sure felt good to be exercising, and he didn't have to be embarrassed that Bodyssia was so much stronger. Look at her—these performers with their muscled bodies.

He had awakened in the lounge, face down, arm hanging over the side, couch cushions indenting his cheek, but filled with new energy. Cinteotl's tea and sleep, that was all he had needed, and it hadn't been a normal sleep, more like a restorative trance caused by the tea. Renewed vigor—he could taste it, a glowing thread dappling throughout his system, a virus of well-being, reconstructing him into a vessel worthy of his new companions. Pull-pull-pull, yes! He opened himself to the kaleidoscopic transfusion: the Cybele film, root tea, push and pull of exercise, expanding into muscle, into heat, rising through him and out, yes, out...and, fingers limp, he let the handles fall.

"Guess you're like me," Bodyssia said.

She had finished the exercise and leaned against the wall, flexing her arms and examining them, as if checking to see how much they had grown from this session of weight lifting.

"After a show, everyone is usually too hung over from cranking up, but I have to get in her and do it." She moved to a padded bench and hooked her feet under a strap.

"There was a performance last night?"

He got up and stood over her. "How was there another performance? I didn't feel the train stop. Didn't see anyone getting ready. Didn't hear anything." He felt like he couldn't speak clearly.

Bodyssia finished her exercise and lay on her back. "Wasn't worth the effort. One of those 'free animal' zones so I couldn't do much."

~

Prisoner of light and dark, tucked away in a comfortable cell, but a cell nonetheless. What chance for escape? No way to know the time to exit the train, no way of knowing when their next stop would occur. Endless day-nights of grayed-out windows, and Dillon, with nothing to give Lewis but the madness of the obsessed. Where were the winter afternoons, resplendent and cold? He yearned for them, his youthful dreams, but his destiny lay with the circus, did it not? And with Cybele. Queen of his dreams, radiant and warm in her world of shadows. I am here, I am here, his thoughts cried to her.

He sank to the floor beside the weight machines. The immensity of Bodyssia receded into the mists cloaking the depths of the gymnasium. It seemed to take a long time for her to reach the exit. Her passage was so gradual at first he thought she walked in place, but then she was gone.

How long did it take to set up, perform, and take down the circus? The worst thing was missing the mechanical horse. He needed to compare it to the one from the movie while its image was fresh. At the end, the father had built it. Tears formed as he recalled how the father had fashioned the metal parts and assembled them.

But it just wasn't possible for so much time to have slipped past while he lay in the lounge. He felt stupid asking about it. Not that anyone was likely to help him. These self-centered performers couldn't see beyond their own noses. He would have to discover everything on his own, starting with Cybele. The film had been a message; now he needed to interpret it.

He tried to remember his Cybele—pale skin, dark hair, dark dress. There had been several times in the past that he had awakened, or dreamed he had awakened, to find a person or a disembodied face in his room, had stared at it, blinked, stared, blinked, till he finally became truly awake and the face was gone. What if Cybele had always been near? But then she would have to be the goddess and he didn't believe in such things.

There had to be a correlation between the length of the train, the number of rooms, and the elusiveness of Cybele. He pulled out the map and his calculus book. Could the total height of the circus personnel have some relationship to the train's length? Then, by knowing the length of the train he could determine Cybele's height by solving for x. On a separate sheet, he listed everyone's name and approximated heights for them, beginning with himself; he found a total of 95 + x feet (x for Cybele). She was at least five feet tall, therefore, (100 feet) + (6 + x inches) = (total height of circus personnel), and (total height) x (relationship of height to train's length [y]) = (length of train [z]). Or, (100 + x)y = z.

The tidiness of the numbers excited him. The crew's estimated heights added up to a precise number of feet with no leftover inches. So Cybele was exactly five feet tall, making the total height 100 feet. He modified his equation to 100y = z. The train must be 10 times the total height, or 1000 feet (333 yards, about 19 percent of a mile).

Without the two giant ones and the diminishing tunnel car, there were eleven train cars, and they should be about 91 feet each (1000/11 = 90.90909). Also, the combined heights of the circus personnel should correspond to the distances between stops, which would vary as the circus gained or lost performers. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the caboose, seeing no one on the way. From there, he would walk the train, counting his steps to measure the length.

But the caboose measured 45 feet: his theory proved wrong so soon after its inception. The next car (his own) also measured 45. No matter, a good researcher is always willing to adapt to new data. If all the cars were 45 feet, then the total of the eleven cars was 495 feet, leaving 395 feet for the two giant cars with his total of 1000 feet (and he decided that because of its seeming infinity, the diminishing tunnel car couldn't be included). That should be right, close to 66 yards apiece. He would keep going. At 150 feet (three cars plus five feet) he reached Desmonica's door, which opened.

"Come on in," she said and dragged him inside. She pushed him into a leather barber's chair. He was relieved to see she hadn't regained her weight. After that long sleep in the lounge, he had begun to doubt many of the things he thought had been happening. She pumped the foot pedal, raising the chair until their heads were at the same level. Looking at his reflection in her brass-framed mirror, he thought his face appeared less haggard. She took out a pair of shears.

"I really can't stay right now," he said. He started to get up, but she jammed him back into the seat.

"Having your hair in a ponytail accentuates your forehead. Don't you think?" With the shears in one hand, she gathered his hair and yanked it back.

"Let go—that hurts." What was her problem?

She relaxed her hand. "You're right, I'll leave it long." Humming, she swiveled the chair around to face her. "I don't know though, I'm really in the mood to cut."

"I appreciate it, but I'll have to come back later." Desmonica lowered the chair. Thinking she was letting him go, he started for the door, but she guided him to a stool in front of the bathroom sink.

He pressed his hands against her shoulders to keep her back, but she knocked them away and straddled him, turned on the faucet, and pushed his head down. The water scalded him. He squirmed, told her to get off him, but he couldn't dislodge her. When she finished washing his hair, she towed him back to the barber chair.

Twisting his head from side to side, she said: "I just have to get the right image before I start."

She released his hands, but he didn't want to move while she held the scissors. When she began cutting, he closed his eyes, but clashing metal close to his right ear made him re-open them. Desmonica waved the scissors over her head.

"János is a great man," she said, so loud Lewis cringed. "The greatest man. He needs to live among the people, where his greatness will be appreciated. Then I can give him an heir. Cinteotl gives me the drink, so I don't get pregnant until then." She spun him around and dug her comb into his hair, then cut. He closed his eyes again, but when she slapped the scissors down on the counter he had to open them.

He stared at his reflection. It wasn't a bad haircut. "Thanks so much." He eased his legs from the high chair to the floor.

"Not yet." She put both hands around his neck and pulled him back into the chair, choking him. "Not till you tell me what you think about my plans." She kept a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy.

Could he talk? His neck throbbed, but he had to say something to calm her. How would Dillon handle the situation? "A spring rain is always welcome," he said. "Irrigating complex furrows sown with promises. Wheat grows in abundance, and from it flows life."

Her eyes closed, her expression returning to the János-rapture that had consumed her at the pool. He lifted her hand from his shoulder and kissed it, then scrambled from the chair.

Chapter 17: Ex-Wives and Crackpot Theories

"I suppose," Lewis said to Floyd Perry, between sips of an oily stout, "that before joining the circus you were a professional jockey?" They sat in the dining car. Because they were in a public place, Lewis didn't mention the book Perry had given him. He hadn't had time to look at it anyway.

"Drink up, boy. This is the stuff for stimulating discussion. A good pint of this and your mind flows like the homestretch of the Lancaster Derby."

Cinteotl slipped plates in front of them. Steak, cigar-shaped green beans, and something that looked like fried potatoes.

Perry was saying something about one of his ex-wives. "We didn't want kids. I got fixed so I wouldn't have to worry. So it's twelve years of marriage and the woman says, 'babe, I'm ready for children of my own and you can't help me.' So out she goes. And I thought, okay, here's a woman who's nearly forty and sees things catching up to her. But get this"—he slapped the table—"next thing I hear, she's moved in with that horse trainer Melvin Merrimack and is taking care of his delinquent son."

Lewis ate, content, letting the taste and texture sooth him. The type of meat was unimportant, and these beans, he had never seen beans like this, but what did it matter? After so long without decent food, he would remember this meal always. This food, this life, this traveling home that carried him from his native lands. Abandoned by his past, no, not that—he had left, a volunteer thrown in with a roving troupe of magicians, crossing borders, casting aside grief. Dispossessed together, that was the circus and its crew, a part of the grand design.

"Horses are like big, contrary dogs," Perry said. "You have to keep letting them know you're the boss, otherwise there's no controlling them. With women you have to hold on till they stop bucking, and nine times out of ten you're on your rump spitting out dust."

"That's real flattering," Leonora said from behind Lewis.

Her harsh voice jarred his pleasant mood. He looked up from his food in time to see her leaving the dining car. Gold hurried after her; he gave Lewis a quick salute as he passed.

Dawn was there too. She stopped. Would he be interested in going to watch her rehearse on the elephant? Why not. He had eaten. But he needed to do the measuring. She put an arm over his shoulders, insisted. Women after him again. The measuring could wait. He found theorizing more interesting than application anyway. And she smiled in such a cheering way. She put her arm through his as they walked to the elephant car.

~

Barca was already there. He had led one of the smaller elephants from the grassy pen to the one with the packed dirt floor and strapped on one of the platform-saddles. In the other pen, the large, hairy elephant was off on the distant hill; the second small one stood in the pond. It waved its trunk and bellowed. Lewis sat on a stool and Dawn went into the pen. He couldn't remember what she had told him about her act. Something to do with gymnastics. The saddle had two sets of wooden parallel bars, one higher than the other.

Barca spoke to the elephant, a word that sounded like "hoekstra." Lewis looked up: Dawn had taken off her warm-ups and was standing on the elephant's head. She looked perfect, compact, muscular body in a pink leotard. He waved, but she didn't notice.

Something about his formula for determining the length of the train bothered him. He flipped open his legal pad. It depended on Cybele's height being exactly five feet. But plus or minus a few inches shouldn't matter. Say she was five foot six. That wouldn't be enough to make much difference in the final product. Dawn swung on the bars as the elephant lumbered around the pen in an oblong path. She held herself above the higher bar with her hands while doing a split. Now he could see why she was so strong.

He started laughing about his crackpot theory. He had made up the heights for everyone but him, Gold, and Bodyssia anyway. Dawn swung around some more, handstands, loops, turns, splits. He wanted to kiss her again. Cybele was unattainable (if not nonexistent!), and the way he obsessed about her was unhealthy. She had only visited him the one time. It was stupid for him to keep waiting for her. Too bad Dawn would be smelly after rehearsing.

Turning to a new page, he sketched Dawn and her elephant.

She ended the routine, and Barca tapped the elephant's head; it kneeled so she could hop off. Lewis stood up and clapped. "Bravo," he said. Smiling, Dawn bowed, then walked over to him. He shut the legal pad so she wouldn't see his sketch. "I can't wait to see your act during a performance," he said. Flattery would be good. Show interest. He had told Gold how to act, why not use some of it himself? "You're so graceful up there." He took her hand and kissed it. "And beautiful."

"You're sweet." She sat on the stool next to his and kissed his cheek. "I need to run through it again after I rest for a minute." She unscrewed the cap of a water bottle and drank.

It was nice having her so close, wearing only a thin leotard. She said something about scraping her knee at their last stop. He touched her thigh. It was hard, like Bodyssia's arms, but he liked the feel of her smooth skin. He decided it would be better to wait until after her second practice session to try kissing her again.

When Dawn finished her second session she helped Barca unsaddle the elephant and herd it into the larger pen.

"Bye for now girlies," Barca said and shut the gate. He took a white cape with a fur collar from a peg on the wall and draped it over his shoulders. Lewis watched him leave. He didn't feel like he knew Barca at all. Had he really interviewed him?

Dawn drained her water bottle. Lewis lay his satchel on her stool and stood. She was so short beside him, eight inches shorter according to his estimate. Nineteen inches shorter than Bodyssia. He took her hand again, and feeling bolder, gave her a quick kiss on her lips.

"Your performance is so magical. I hope my description for the program expresses its beauty."

"The same thing, over and over. You don't know how it is." She bent to pull on her sweat pants.

"Would you like to go back to my room for a drink?"

"I need a shower. These damn elephants stink." She left.

~

He despaired of ever fitting in with these performers. He needed consistency. Dawn had pulled him on top of her in his room, then pushed him away. Maybe he should be more aggressive, knock on her door after her shower and invite her to dinner.

No, best to stay with the things he could control, like mathematics. He resolved to measure the train from the elephant car to the diminishing tunnel car. He walked, toe-to-heel, and the uniformity of measurement cheered him; at the end of the third corridor car he stopped and wrote 45 feet on his list.

Not ready for the diminishing tunnel again, not now, maybe never, he sat on the floor and turned to a new page in his journal notebook.

~

Chance has little to do with the elements of our situation. Once a factor has been analyzed, one hopes that the essence of belief expounds upon its recognizable qualities in a way that serves to redefine its main characteristics. Conversely, if a factor has not been analyzed, it is best left in this anonymous state, unless further deliberation is necessary. The analysis can be broken down into its mathematical dimensions, cultural significance, aesthetics, and form. For example...

~

What was he doing here? He longed to stand outside and feel the sun, the wind. The walls of the train trapped him. Nearly a quarter mile from here to the caboose. He had to get there now. He jumped to his feet and started running.

By the elephant car he was winded, gasping. He stopped, bending over, hands on his knees. So out of shape. Had to keep going though, all the way to the caboose. He ran into the horse and capybara car, ran toward the next door. A looming shape, like a tree leaning into the aisle at a crazy angle. He ducked under the low branches, but something caught him, lifted him up.

"There you are, cute guy." Not a tree: Bodyssia. She was in the pen with her animals, had reached across the pen's chain link fence to snare him. She set him on the fence, with his feet hanging down on the inside. The tops of the fence links bit into his thighs, but he was afraid to complain. He stammered something about needing to take notes on Dawn's act. For the program, for the program, he kept repeating, holding up his official duties as a shield. Her grip on his arms tightened; he stopped squirming, remembered that he had read somewhere about not allowing wild animals (and that included Bodyssia) to sense your fear, no matter how great.

One of the capybarabears padded over and sniffed his feet. It yawned, showing the fangs that couldn't belong to a plant-eater. Bodyssia yawned too, and for a moment, he thought he saw fangs in her mouth.

"You're just in time to watch me feed my little darlings." She moved closer, pushing against his dangling legs, squeezed him to her...now the pain in his thighs was unbearable but...too weak to push her away. She squashed her lips against his. He couldn't breathe, she was pressing him so tight. He felt himself fainting.

She finished the kiss just before he passed out, then lifted him and put him down inside the pen. He leaned against the fence, heaving, gulping air.

The other two animals came over, grunting and growling. In that film he had seen them tear apart the large bird—he put the tip of a shoe into one of the links of the fence, a few inches off the floor. He wasn't sure he would be able to pull himself over. He had to though, before the animals or Bodyssia...She bent over a canvas shoulder bag. The animals moved toward her, and she reached back to pat one on the head. It sniffed her hand and made a sound somewhere between a bark and a growl.

"Not yet, boys. In the bowls." She pulled three pieces of hacked-up bloody meat out of the sack.

That was it—had to leave now, while the animals occupied her attention (and the meat occupied theirs). He closed his eyes and pushed up, over the fence; she must have heard, must have seen, she would pull him back, but no, and he kept going, running without stopping until he reached his door.

Chapter 18: Visitations and Outside Air

Lewis retreated to his shower, allowing hot water and steam to soothe jangles mental and physical. The importance of a good showerhead could not be minimized. The spray needed to be thick and forceful, a strong, determined flow. A few years ago he had purchased a marvelous showerhead that he took with him on several moves, replacing the apartments' inadequate devices with his own. But where was it now? Still secure in Martha's shower—no one could say he left her with nothing to show for their time together. Few things on the train were his alone, few things that weren't new or insane. His room, his shower, welcome sanctuaries. He hadn't known what he would find on the train, hadn't known whether he would even have a private bathroom; his happiest moment came when he discovered that his new bathroom possessed the equal of his abandoned showerhead.

Afterwards, he dried himself and examined his tender thighs. There were red splotches from that chain-link fence. He didn't think Bodyssia meant to hurt him—an over-affectionate giant, that's all, giant bear woman with her trained capybarabears. He turned off the room lights and got into bed. The bathroom light was still on, but he didn't feel like getting up again.

What would it be like to share a bed with Bodyssia? She was so thick. At least in bed he wouldn't feel so dwarfed. He closed his eyes, but reopened them, aware of a limonene fragrance and a presence beside him. The citrus woman—Cybele?—occupied the space between him and the wall. Naked, on her side, facing him, and from her body, warmth reached out, wrapped long fingers around him. He lay on his back, head turned toward her just enough to catch her profile. He was afraid to change his position, break the spell that had brought her. His eyes were a movie camera panning from her toes upward. She is woman, flesh, features, shape. She is here, close enough to touch, but inches became miles, chasms black with depth; only his eyes could span the distance, body trapped and longing. The gulf separated them, as if his narrow bed had grown to the width of one of the train corridors and they occupied opposite ends. At the thought of reaching toward her, extending a hand into the inconceivable gap, a great fear overcame him. The gap, aside from its vastness of horizontal distance, encompassed a depth that reached past the center of the earth. If he moved...and he dared not...he would fall, and in falling, tumbling infinite, would pass from the world.

Could she read his longing? She pressed a palm to his chest, resting it there, warm and prickling. His breath stopped, unwilling to intrude, to move his chest while her contact lingered.

His camera gaze continued to traverse her landscape, stopping when it reached her face. She smiled and in his next moment of awareness, she lay on top of him.

As with her first visit, he thought he was merging with her. He reached frantically for her lips with his and ejaculated against her belly.

Quiet spread through him, a flow of soft light, the patterns of which spelled out his desires in blue and green. The quiet invited him to doze, but he wouldn't, not while she was here, finally, beside him in bed, the position he had yearned for her to take all these long nights alone. He held her on top of him, and her skin beneath his fingertips spoke the seven tongues of desperation, each as distinct as the petals of a rose.

~

From a brief, dreamless sleep, he woke refreshed, better even than waking after drinking Cinteotl's tea. But Cybele was gone. He rolled onto the other side of the bed, trying to absorb the warmth and smell left by her body, but found only the chill of his cotton sheets.

Repelled by his empty bed, he stood and made his way to the toilet. But the scene outside the windows jolted him. The train was on the water—he could see the whitecaps of the open ocean. The rocking of the train dizzied him, and he braced himself on the desk. He leaned toward the window...no...train wasn't moving...stopped, someplace overlooking a bay. Stopped. He dressed and rushed toward the caboose.

The train stood in a meadow colored by the blues, yellows, and reds of wildflowers. Past the meadow was a small, open-air amphitheater filled with a blur of people, and beyond that, a town.

Lewis breathed his first real air since boarding the train. Intoxicated with the pleasure of being outside, he ran down the caboose steps and into the meadow, bending to look at a mass of white and yellow flowers, like miniature daisies, and a plant he recognized from his grade school playground that looked like a tiny fern, with thin, many-segmented leaves. When you touched the leaves, they closed. He ran around, stopping, touching, watching the leaves curl, running, working his way downhill.

Near a red brick building that extended from one end of the amphitheater he stopped and brushed leaves off his clothes. He entered through an open door. The building's interior was warehouse-like, with a high ceiling. A square opening led into the amphitheater, where the circus crew was finishing their final parade. He stood aside as they filed past him, first Dillon, commanding in his white coat and top hat, and the rest. Miss Linda, in clown outfit, ran back and forth handing out balloons and candy to children in the seats near the exit. But the mechanical horse was the only thing he wanted to see, and there it was, with Desmonica on its back. He wanted her off. It looked so alive, the way it moved. He had to get closer.

Everyone crowded around the exit, between him and the mechanical horse, all yelling and running. They were hard to recognize as his train companions. Larger, more alive, as though augmented by their performance. He stopped and ducked as one of the acrobats, apparently showing off for two dark-haired women, swung across the room on a rope hanging from a beam. Fragments of conversations broke through the confluence of words.

Dawn passed him. She had painted her face silver. It was unpleasant being around them. They were linked by their conquest and he was an interloper.

"...the greatest!" Gold shouted. He grabbed Leonora and lifted her. "And you were a sensation." She smiled and ran her hands through his hair.

"...ache like hell," Bodyssia said, to no one in particular.

Desmonica dismounted. Her leather outfit was mostly straps, with lots of skin showing. She shouted something about a matre de telos: "Where did you put it, János? I had to go on without it."

Up close, the horse didn't look as shiny. A few dents marked its sides. But it was still amazing. The metal where the legs joined the body looked woven. Must cover whatever piston-thing made the legs work, giving the illusion of supple flesh. He reached for the pommel to pull himself up.

"No time for playing," Dillon said from behind him. He took Lewis's arm and guided him away.

Not away—Lewis turned his head to keep the horse in sight. Barca passed and Dillon stopped him.

"The big one is not lame, is he?" Dillon asked. "He appeared to be favoring his right front foot." Barca shook his head. "Tomorrow then."

Dillon released Lewis's arm. He took the mechanical horse by the reins and led it away. Before Lewis could follow, Barca moved the elephants into his path. By the time they were out of the way, Dillon was gone, probably back on the train with the horse secured wherever he stored it.

Despite Lewis's disappointment at not getting up on the horse, he felt ecstatic to be off the train. He ran back outside, craving more more more of air-flowers-rocks before nightfall. He wanted to climb the hills behind the amphitheater, but a crowd blocked his way. People leaving the circus, heading into the town on foot. He couldn't wait for them to pass.

"Excuse me, please, let me through."

He forced himself in. No one was speaking English. Their clothes looked funny too, lots of parachute pants and maroon turtlenecks. He pushed his way to the other side. A rocky outcropping near the top of a wooded hill looked inviting. He climbed. On reaching the outcropping, he sat on a flat rock overlooking the amphitheater, town, and harbor. It was darker in the trees. Not much daylight left. Would this be it, then? His one chance for the open? But Dillon had said, "tomorrow then." So the circus was staying. Though what did that matter to him? His bag was packed and waiting in his closet. This town might be the perfect place to stay for a while.

The sun was setting behind him. He would need to go down soon—didn't want to risk a twisted ankle walking down the hill in the dark. Not back to the train though. He set off for the town.

The streets in the harbor area seemed designed for pedestrian traffic only, no cars or busses anywhere. The largest building was maybe a dozen stories high and shaped like a pyramid. Its exterior had a dull finish, like stone, but translucent. Through the walls he could see lights and the shapes of furniture. Music, the sounds of a fiddle and mandolin, came from a building that jutted out over the water. He came to a steep, winding street that ended at the bay. The buildings along the street looked older; a few were brick, the rest stucco painted with bright colors.

Lewis sat on a stone bench. A young couple ambled by holding hands. They weren't speaking English either.

The moon emerged, first as a glow, then the fat and full disk rose before him. He stared at it until he thought it would absorb him. So much larger and brighter than he remembered. He gripped the edge of the bench to keep from falling toward it. A filament of cloud swept across the face, and high above the buildings nighthawks darted in and out. A breeze from the west stirred his hair; he breathed a scent of sea mixed with pine and closed his eyes.

~

"...Oblong Henry is always tossing some kind of party," a woman's voice said.

Lewis looked down from the moon, reluctantly withdrawing himself from its magnificence. Two people passed, a woman with stick-like arms and a heavy man with red-hair and a wild beard. They both carried musical instrument cases. A short, dark-haired woman followed a few steps behind them, pulling a wheeled instrument case that was larger than she was.

Attracted by the sound of English, Lewis shadowed them up the hill, walking slowly to avoid catching up. At the summit, where a side street turned along the crest of a ridge, the two in front paused, allowing the third to reach them before they continued along the side street. Lewis turned also. Far ahead the ocean stretched, a band of darkness distinct from the night sky. The trio stopped, and Lewis bumped into the short woman's instrument case. He mumbled an apology and crossed the street to look at a small church made of yellowy limestone. It looked ancient; ocean winds had worn furrows in its walls. Carvings of intertwined snakes surrounded the windows, and one of the stones under the eaves was carved into a woman's face. It was a darker stone than the rest, a style unlike the other carvings, perhaps reused from a previous construction. The woman's sad smile drew him.

But the trio had meanwhile turned up the driveway of a stone house opposite. Lewis crossed the street. A tree-like rosemary grew beside the driveway. He rubbed his hands over one of the lower branches and smelled them. So nice—he broke off a long piece and tucked it into his waist, under his shirt. It tickled when he moved.

The downward-sloping path gave way after a few feet to a short flight of steps leading to a patio at the rear of the house. Because of the steepness of the hill, the house had a lower floor in the rear. Beyond the patio was a garden and beyond that, the hillside dropped to the water. Forty or so people were scattered around the patio, garden, and house. He had become so accustomed to the circus people that the party felt tame. No yelling, juggling, no one running on their hands. He walked to the back of the garden and looked down at the harbor. Even with the full moon's buttery light, the train was too distant to see.

When he returned to the patio, the musicians were talking to a short man with sloping shoulders. The sleeves of his baggy shirt hung over his elbows. Floyd Perry approached from the direction of the house, and the man turned toward him. "Hey, you're Floyd Perry," the man said.

This guy knows Perry? Though short himself, the man was several inches taller than Perry. "I remember seeing you race at Bandera. That was the time..."

"Guises of perception and deception in time and space," Perry said. He sipped from a tumbler of amber liquid.

Lewis recognized the phrase from somewhere. Had Perry read it to him?

"Wish I had said that," the man said. "Mind if I paraphrase you?"

"The author of A World Without Walls can take whatever liberties he wants." Perry drained the last of his drink and raised his glass to the writer. He seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself. His smile had to be over more than the quality of the Scotch.

Lewis turned toward the house. Through a picture window he could see Bodyssia and two of the acrobats, and despite her presence, he went inside, where he found a long buffet table. The recognizable food thrilled him. He filled a plate with shrimp, bread, and roasted eggplant.

"Hey cute guy." Bodyssia pulled him onto her lap.

That was too much. He pushed on her arm that encircled his stomach, but couldn't dislodge it. "I'm not your toy," he said.

"Sorry chief." She let go, and he moved to the chair beside her. "Nice place," she said with her mouth full.

He ate a shrimp. The food calmed him. Wasn't much point arguing with someone so huge. And he had always liked bears.

"Whose house is this, that guy outside?"

"Henry something. Somebody at the show gave us the address."

"Oblong Henry," Perry said. He had come up behind Bodyssia. Even sitting down, she was taller.

"Oh, the book you gave me." That was where he had read the phrase Perry told the writer.

"Quiet. And don't mention it to him. It doesn't exist here," Perry said. "Although it might soon, now that I've put the thought into his head." Perry smiled and walked out the door.

Please, not another enigma.

Across the room, Dawn leaned against a kitchen counter beside a taller woman. Dawn had taken off her silver makeup. The woman bent over to whisper into her ear.

Bodyssia tapped his shoulder. "Hey look out there." She pointed to the picture window. Outside, an iron pipe by the door rose to the second floor, and one of the acrobats was climbing it. He passed out of sight, but a few seconds later came a shriek and a thud on the floor above them, then a crash of glass shattering. Bodyssia laughed a raucous, bellowing laugh.

The trio of musicians had set up at the far end of the patio. They were playing, but Lewis couldn't hear them inside. When he saw Dillon walking toward them, he gave Bodyssia his plate and went out to the patio. Dillon greeted the trio and pulled a pennywhistle from his jacket.

"How about 'The Tinker's Coin,'" Dillon said to the musicians. The thin woman nodded; Dillon played a sad, slow melody on the whistle, and the burly man sang.

From behind, Lewis heard a woman's voice, distracting him from the music, and he turned to see Dawn and the other woman, who was bent over, with her lips near Dawn's ear.

"I'll bet her heart was broken," Dawn said.

The woman straightened her back and looked at the musicians. "NOT the heart," the woman said. She bent her lips again to Dawn's ear. Lewis thought she was about to eat it. Instead, she continued speaking. Her accent was hard to place, like the language he had been hearing. "People always associate emotion with the heart. The heart pumps blood. A person's essence is a core in the middle of the brain. This is what hates and loves, not the heart. Definitely NOT the heart."

She kissed Dawn's cheek, leaving a trace of red lipstick; Dawn turned her face to kiss the other's lips.

If she preferred women, why had she pulled him on top of her that time? It had to be because of Cybele. Once Cybele had touched him, her power made all the women on the train desire him.

The song ended; Dillon began something fast on the whistle and the rest followed. Lewis sat on a wrought iron bench near the stairs leading to the street. The music was like time, relentless, moving forward into the mist. It pulled him with it.

Chapter 19: The Circus Performs

Poised for a dive, Lewis stood naked on a ledge several feet above blue-green water so clear he could see clusters of sea urchins on the bottom. A buoy bobbed on the swell about forty yards away. He dove in and swam toward it. He hadn't seen anyone from the circus yet this morning. Who knows how long everyone had stayed at the party. He had listened to Dillon and the other musicians for a few songs, then returned to his room to put the rosemary branch in water and take a sheet and a blanket outside so he could sleep in the meadow near the train.

Now it was day, real day. The sky so blue above him, bluer than he remembered. The sweet air made him laugh. He loved the feel of the water on his skin, soft, alive. He hadn't swum nude since he was ten years old, at summer camp. He didn't care if anyone saw him. He swam around the buoy toward the shore, then back again. Treading water, he looked up at the bluff, where he could make out the top third or so of the train. Ever since boarding, he had envisioned it as a long, sleek projectile, but it looked more like a late nineteenth century train—boxy, wooden cars with flat roofs.

He swam back to the shore and pulled himself out, dressed, and took his things back to the train. After showering, he went to the dining car and asked Cinteotl to fix him a breakfast he could carry with him. He would eat in the hills, away from the train. On the way back to the caboose he ran into Jenkins carrying a stack of magazines.

"Here," Jenkins said and looked at a note taped to the top magazine. "Says, 'Give to Lewis.'"

"What are they?"

"For you." Jenkins held out the stack and Lewis took it. He had already passed his door but didn't feel like carrying the magazines with him all day. He returned to his room and dropped the stack on the floor. But the title...Circus of the Grand Design...not magazines. Programs. When could they have been printed? He hadn't done them. The cover was a triptych painting of clowns and jugglers with grotesque features. He sat at his desk and opened one. The first spread showed a photograph of the circus crew parading before a packed house, with a short introduction by Dillon printed in the far right:

~

Now in its second century, The Circus of the Grand Design, its uniqueness unsurpassed, strives to bring audiences an entertainment experience encompassing all the senses. Step inside a dream of lights and miracles and prepare for a lifetime's worth of enjoyment packed into a mere two and one half hours. Step inside and let your perceptions not be denied. The glories lie within reach. Let the show commence.

Joseph Dillon, proprietor

~

The rest of the program spotlighted each performer. He couldn't believe how good it looked; his biographical sketches were perfect. He would have to pass some out himself that afternoon. When he was maybe seven years old his family took him to a circus performing in the domed stadium, which had recently opened, the first of its kind. All he remembered from that night was the immense curved roof above him and men on stilts, eight or nine or ten feet tall. Now he was a part of the process and knew all of the people involved. He wanted to be the first to arrive, to find a seat in front.

He wasn't sure when to go to the amphitheater though. He would have to stay close during the day to keep from missing anything. He would climb up to the ledge he found yesterday. From it he could watch the amphitheater. His breakfast was still in the satchel; he took it out and bit into an apple.

His door opened and Cybele entered, bringing a concentrated scent of outside, stronger even than what he had smelled on leaving the train for the first time yesterday, an intoxicating torrent: dirt, leaves, herbs, mold, fruit, rain, wildlife.

All he could do was breathe. He felt his lips twisting into a silly, gaping smile.

Cybele wore sleeveless white coveralls zipped to her collarbone. He had never seen her so covered. He wanted to stand up and kiss the hollow where her neck and collarbone met, but found himself unable to move as she approached the window and looked out at the bay.

He knew he should be silent, but he heard himself speaking to her, asking questions. He asked if she was angry with him for leaving her out of the program, asked how long she had been with the circus and what training she'd had. He knew the questions sounded inane, but he couldn't stop. He thought she smiled, though it could have been the angle of sunlight on her chin. Fearing he would drown in her dark eyes, he looked away, babbling on, trying to say something poetic.

"I've traveled so long, down a cold, deep well that echoes blindly without you." This time he was sure she smiled, and her smile seemed to mock him. She turned and touched the tip of his nose with one slender finger. He smelled oranges. "Are you Cybele?"

"Names have no unimportance."

She spoke with a firm voice; he had thought it would be soft and sexy, like her appearance. He longed to hear more. Certain aspects of her were so familiar—the way she stood, like an Arabian mare, hair mane-like on her shoulders and down her back—he thought he had always known her.

"I've never seen hair quite so black," he said. Then they were silent. She was still an arm's length away. He wanted to pull her toward him, but decided not to, though in deciding knew the choice had been hers. He stared at her cheeks, lips, and long, narrow nose. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees on the hills lengthened. The wind rippled grass and wildflowers. Gray clouds pressed in from the bay but no rain came. The apple sitting on his satchel turned brown where he had taken his bite.

He stood and reached a hand out to her bare shoulder, loving the feel of her skin under his fingers, softer and more luxurious than the sea. She smiled and leaned toward him; he bent over to kiss her and hug her against him, but she kept him back, put the tips of her fingers between his lips, then turned away. He watched her gliding walk to his door. As the door closed behind her, he sat again at his desk breathing the lingering scents of spring.

~

Lewis traversed the hallways, knocking in succession on the doors of Dawn and Leonora, Bodyssia, Floyd Perry, Gold, even Barca, with no response, and as he progressed found no one in the dining car, gym, or Dillon's office. The animal pens were empty as well, so he turned back and hurried to the caboose, where Jenkins was sewing a button on a silver costume jacket.

"Has everyone gone to the hall?"

Jenkins responded with a sharp nod.

"How long has it been?"

Jenkins held up the jacket. "Two buttons finished and another halfway there."

Lewis rushed out the door. Today, he didn't linger in the meadow, but sprinted toward the amphitheater, slowing near the back to catch his breath.

The crew had begun the opening promenade. Unsure where to go, Lewis peered into the arena from the stage entrance. All the way around the floor, a three-foot-high wall blocked access to the audience. There were a few empty seats on the row closest to him. He stepped over the wall and chose a seat before the performers finished their circuit. Behind him, the semicircle of seats, which were built into the side of the hill, extended steeply upward to entrances at the top. The turnout surprised him—the seats were nearly filled. The scent of fat mingled with sea air; vendors traversed the aisles, an odor of fried food in their wake. A nearby man dipped his fingers into a paper cup filled with fried squid tentacles.

Lewis scanned the audience, hoping to see Cybele. She had been there the first time he saw the circus. A giddiness overcame him as he watched his companions parade. He couldn't believe he was finally there, ready to witness an entire show on the same day that his programs were printed and distributed to the audience. How could he enjoy the show? He felt he was performing himself.

In the middle of the floor, a ring had been set up, about one foot high and three feet wide with one opening that faced the backstage exit. A lattice of steel poles, lights, and wires bracketed the ring. The promenade looped around the outside of the ring and back to the exit, led by Dillon in his white coat and top hat. As they filed out, Dillon stayed near the gate, surveying the crowd. Spotting Lewis, he touched the brim of his hat in salute, then motioned to someone behind him. The acrobats, clad in matching gold and black warm-ups with gold masks, carried out a trampoline, set it down in the ring, and returned for two more, lining them up about fifteen feet apart. Dillon re-emerged and spoke into the handle of his cane, which held a microphone. He said something in the language Lewis had been hearing around him, then in English, ending with: "from Alfold, the Daposvars!"

As the echoes of his voice faded, the acrobats pulled off their warm-ups to reveal matching gold tights. They vaulted onto the trampolines and began leaping and somersaulting.

Behind him, a whining male voice said—"What do you expect from such a provincial venue. It's not something that—" The rest was overwhelmed by a roar from the middle section of the house as two of the acrobats grasped each other's arms and spun like a propeller.

"Doesn't resonate," a female voice said.

Lewis turned around to see the noisy pair. Early twenties, probably just out of college. The woman wore a shiny, red vinyl vest over a white turtleneck, the man, a green jacket of similar vinyl. Her bangs hung over her eyes but the rest of her hair was cut short. The man wore a tight, knit cap low on his forehead.

"Still, I do like the architectural confluence of the arena," the man said. "Though..." Lewis glared at them and turned back to watch the acrobats.

Their act had progressed into ever more intricate patterns of moving bodies, but something seemed odd. Their speed? Their movements had slowed until he could distinguish every detail, their ascents, descents, the way they used their hands to guide their flights. Then they hung in the air like a giant, human mobile.

"It's as if you took a stock performance artist and said, here you go, jump around a bit," the woman said.

The acrobats backflipped in unison off the trampolines and bowed to the audience.

Miss Linda stepped to the middle of the floor, about thirty feet from the front row of seats. She wore a costume Lewis hadn't seen before—a dark cloak and a black-hair wig. Her skin was painted a yellowish white, with black half-circles under her eyes, giving a goulish effect. Her appearance quieted the crowd and she spoke in a whispery voice; the sound emanated from the air around them.

~

"A shadow falls.

Darkness

calls.

Encircled by fear,

shadows

near.

Nothing ever comes to pass when jagged shadows darken fast.

And you who watch—where will you hide?"

~

From behind Miss Linda an explosion like a giant firecracker startled Lewis; someone in the audience screamed. Miss Linda screamed too, and the force of the explosion threw her several feet, though one of the acrobats managed to catch her before she struck the ground. Heavy smoke flared from the blast-site, obscuring them. Was this meant to happen or were they being attacked? The smoke flowed over the audience. Lewis coughed; it smelled sweet, like incense. Then the roar of another explosion and screaming sounds like rockets overhead. In the flash Lewis saw a safety line attached to Miss Linda's waist.

"The sexual metaphors are somewhat intriguing," the man said. His voice sounded shaky.

When the fog cleared, Miss Linda and the acrobats had left, and Bodyssia emerged with the three capybarabears. Brisbane was setting up three pedestals in the ring. Bodyssia carried a burlap sack over her shoulder. Was it wriggling? The angle of the light cast her shadow across the ground. She stopped with her back to her shadow. Lewis thought it stopped first, but knew that couldn't be. Miss Linda's poem and the explosions had unsettled him. Dillon's voice came over the speakers, again in the unknown language, then in English. Though Lewis couldn't understand the words, the sound of Dillon's voice always intrigued him.

"Ho hum," the woman said; the man grunted.

Lewis turned to them. "Shut up or leave," he said.

"Was he talking to us?" the woman asked.

Bodyssia raised the sack over her head. "These are not tame beasts!" she said in her thunder voice. As if on cue, one of the capybarabears growled and leaped on another. The third joined and they rolled over the ground, a solid mass of fur, until Bodyssia pulled a whip from a pocket and cracked it in the air. They separated and cowered for her.

"Only I can control them and it takes all my will."

Lewis expected them to do something horrible, but what followed was more like a dumb seal act, pedestals, ring toss. Too inane to watch. Then she reached into the bag and pulled out a large white rabbit. The capybarabears sat up with their noses pointed at the rabbit. Someone in the audience gasped. This was it then, the real show.

"They haven't been fed for a very...very...long...time." She held the rabbit in one giant hand and the whip in the other. An odd mix of feelings rushed through Lewis. He had been frightened of Bodyssia's size and aggressiveness, then more accepting. Now, watching her command of the animals, a wild lust grew.

She lowered the rabbit. The capybarabears snarled, but before they could attack she cracked the whip again. They scrambled onto their pedestals. She released the rabbit and it streaked out of the ring. She cracked the whip again and the capybarabears chased the rabbit around and around the floor.

Lewis's first college roommate had kept a boa constrictor in a glass tank. Once a week he bought a mouse and dropped it in with the snake. They would watch as the boa stirred, whipped back, and struck the mouse, coiling around it and squeezing. They would watch it unhinge its jaws and pull the mouse in, watch the lump move down its throat.

The rabbit had nowhere to hide. The capybarabears caught it and tore it apart as the crowd, Lewis included, watched, mesmerized by the butchery. Hyena-like, they tore the rabbit apart and ate, snarling and crunching bones and flesh. Two tried to eat the same bloody hunk, but dropped it to tear at each other until the snapping of Bodyssia's whip separated them. When nothing was left but bits of fur, Bodyssia reached down to pet the capybarabears. One reared up and rested its forepaws on her legs; she lifted it and rubbed her cheek against its. She carried the beast toward the front row of spectators.

"Would anyone like to pet him? They're cuddly after they've been fed." The people sitting in front jerked back as she held the animal out. She laughed her deep laugh. "No one? But he's such a cute little thing."

Lewis stood. "Over here. I'll pet him."

"A daring soul steps forward."

When she reached him, Lewis again saw the animal's fangs and regretted volunteering. But at the same time it thrilled to be participating in her act. He hoped she would show her appreciation later.

"Don't worry sir, he's not as rabid as he looks." Lewis trusted that the animal remembered they were acquainted—assuming it was the one she had been holding when he first met her. He reached to pet the wiry fur; the animal rumbled and clicked as it had the first time.

"That's all, we don't want him getting tamed." Her bellow was loud enough for everyone in the building to hear. Lewis pulled his hand away as the animal snapped at him and growled. She laughed again and carried it backstage; the other two followed. The crowd applauded.

"Did you see that?" the woman behind Lewis said. "He must be insane to touch that thing. Not that I believe any of that tearing apart the rabbit business."

Lewis sat down to wait for the next act. Was there a problem? Nothing was happening. People talked. He became aware of a shudder, a growing vibration in the building. Then Dillon's voice. "Nothing can prepare you for the fearsome tread of Paladin." The shuddering increased.

"We're going—now." The man behind him said.

Just when he thought the building was about to tumble around them, Paladin the mammoth elephant rumbled into sight. It ran around the arena as though enraged, trumpeting so loud the sounds echoed from the surrounding hills. A child ran screaming up the steps from the front row, but stopped a few rows higher and turned back to watch.

"There's no way that's a real mammoth," the woman said. "It's probably not even as big as it looks. All padding and makeup."

Paladin trumpeted again but stopped running and watched Barca lead out the two smaller elephants. One carried Dawn and her gymnastics bars, the other a flat wooden platform for Leonora, who balanced motionless on one leg, like a statue of a ballerina. A musky odor rose as the elephants trundled past. Barca called out commands in a strange language. Lewis wondered if the commands included something for Paladin. He couldn't figure out what was and wasn't part of the act. It seemed reckless for them to allow Paladin to run in so wildly. If the mammoth elephant's actions weren't part of the act, Dawn and Leonora gave no indication. Dawn sat under her bars waving to the audience. She had applied a garish red to her cheeks and lips.

When the elephants reached the middle of the arena, music started playing, a recording of organ, drums, and saxophone. Dawn began her gymnastics routine and Leonora spun into a new position. Lewis's attention drifted; he thought about going backstage to search for the mechanical horse. Or Cybele. He glanced back at the elephants. Leonora's grace surprised him; he had associated her abrupt manner with awkwardness.

Paladin trumpeted more loudly and reared onto his hind legs. His size was frightening. The seats shook as he dropped back onto four legs and ran back and forth as though crazed, despite Barca's attempts to divert him. This couldn't have been planned. Paladin ran at the elephant carrying Dawn. Lewis jumped up as a collision seemed imminent, but Dawn's elephant flopped to its belly and Paladin leaped over it and stopped a few feet away from the backstage exit.

Barca held out his staff to Dawn's elephant, which it, so sweet compared to the savage Paladin, grasped with its trunk and raised its body from the floor, as if using the staff for support. Then Barca faced Paladin. While chanting over and over what sounded like the same short phrase, he twirled his staff faster and faster. The movement calmed Paladin; he lay down. Dawn and Leonora finished their routines.

The audience clapped, then laughed as Miss Linda, now wearing her red-haired clown outfit, darted out, chased by someone—one of the acrobats?—wearing a lion's costume. But the laughter stopped when Miss Linda tripped over Paladin's trunk. The beast trumpeted, and with its trunk, slapped the acrobat into the air and through the exit. Something crashed backstage. Not the mechanical horse? Miss Linda scrambled to her feet and ran, but Paladin followed her. Barca ran behind them, waving his staff and chanting to no effect. Lewis thought it was over for her when she stumbled and sprawled onto her stomach. Paladin stopped with one huge foot over her, then backed up a step. It reached out with its trunk and ran the tip across her body, stopping at her red-hair wig. It lifted off her wig and put it on its head, then reared on its hind legs, trumpeted, replaced the wig on her head, picked her up, and carried her off. She waved to the crowd.

Dillon's voice rumbled out: "Ancient hieroglyphics show that the Egyptians invented the art of juggling as a ritual to appease the gods of the Nile. Our own juggler..."

Lewis slipped away. He had seen enough of Gold's juggling, and he wanted to inspect the mechanical horse before it went on stage.

Backstage, Desmonica stood with János and one of the other acrobats. She looked inhuman in her feathered headdress (was that the matre de telos that she was always going off about?), her face whitened with powder, and her eyes lined with an iridescent blue. He didn't want to get near her, but had little choice if he wanted to see the horse. When he reached them, he turned to János. "That was great, what you did with the trampolines. I've never seen anything like it." He noticed that János was missing his left earlobe; it looked as though it had been bitten off.

"Yes, thank you much," János said. Lewis glanced at the other acrobat, observing a large, star-shaped scar under one eye. János continued. "We worked very difficultly for this and I am happy with its turnout." The other acrobat said something in their language and moved off. "Well I must away to dismantlize our equipments. The work is never done, the pleasures are oft hard won."

Lewis wondered why János didn't stay to watch his girlfriend. He could do without Desmonica, but how could anyone not watch the horse? He considered asking her if he could sit on the horse before she began her act, but didn't want her to know how much it fascinated him.

The acrobats shouted and sang as they folded the trampolines. Barca stood near the backstage door with his elephants; they moved aside, and the acrobats lugged their trampolines out the door and piled them outside. He wondered if the elephants would be used to transport everything back to the train. A few minutes later Dillon came in leading the horse by its bridle as though it was alive. Lewis marveled at its smooth gait; when Dillon and the horse stopped, Desmonica mounted.

Then, the drumming of hoofs. Perry on horseback galloped in, Gold and Brisbane returned from the arena, and Dillon walked out to announce the final act. Lewis stood close to the mechanical horse. Desmonica lifted the reins, and it carried her forward. What made it move? He watched from just outside the floor area. Their act wasn't worthy of the horse. Racing around. Yes, it was amazing that the horse could race around with its fleshy counterpart, but it wasn't enough. Such a marvel demanded excitement.

The horses finished their act, and marching music began. Dillon led everyone back out for the final procession. The performers filed past Lewis, and he, with sudden decisiveness, added himself to the tail of the group, behind Bodyssia and her capybarabears. Nobody would notice; one of their rules was not to look back during a promenade.

At first he felt embarrassed and exposed. He kept his eyes on the animals ahead of him and stepped carefully, afraid of stumbling. The noise bothered him; screechings and drummings that he couldn't place. They had marched about halfway around before he tried a quick glance around him. The noises were coming from the crowd. A blur of clapping and yelling, plus the marching band music. Was this what performing was like?

~

Afterwards, a repeat of yesterday. Miss Linda handed out balloons and candy. Backstage, everyone howling, acrobats throwing each other into the air. Gold shouted something about Leonora. She tore off her leotard and pirouetted naked, then leaped toward Gold to be caught and lifted. Once past them, Lewis could see the mechanical horse. Desmonica was off, nearby but wrapped around János. He couldn't believe it—Dillon was nowhere.

He pulled himself up onto the leather saddle and prodded its sides. Nothing happened. It might as well be made of marble. He reached for the reins, but before he could get them Dillon appeared.

"Off now." Dillon took his wrist, pulling him down from the horse. "No time to play," Dillon said. Lewis started to protest, but Dillon's expression frightened him, all red-faced and stiff-lipped. Dillon led the horse away.

Dillon had been gone less than a minute when two men wearing loose orange smocks and orange skullcaps rushed into the room. One of them carried a wooden staff about the same size and shape as a baseball bat but with a metal knob on the end. They're after the horse—Dillon must have known they were coming. Lewis wondered how fast Dillon could cover the distance from the amphitheater to the train. Feeling as though he was inside Cybele's melodrama, he watched the men run to the door, but before they could reach it Barca moved the elephants into their path. They shouted at him in their language. He said he couldn't understand them. They cursed (it sounded like cursing) and gestured. Lewis thought to warn Barca, tell him not to let the men through. When enough time had gone by for Dillon to reach the train, Barca moved the elephants away from the doorway. Dillon knew what he was doing. People were probably always trying to take the horse.

Lewis followed the men out. They were talking to each other with sweeping gestures, pointing to the train, the amphitheater, the town. Dillon wasn't in sight. They turned and moved toward the town.

Some of the crew came out while he was watching the men, and he accompanied them back to the train. Gold claimed that a group of women had returned from the day before to revel in his dexterity. Leonora said something about showing him some real dexterity later. Despite his earlier elation with his program, Lewis felt left out. The others bragged about their performance. He wished someone would compliment him for his contribution, but no one seemed to have noticed it. When they reached the train, the performers returned to their rooms to change. He stayed outside, reluctant to give up the fresh air and quiet. At least there would be one more day of it.

The road away from town passed into the hills. He walked a short way in that direction. It felt good to have finally seen the circus, but he wished someone besides Desmonica rode Cybele's horse. Desmonica didn't deserve to be connected with it. What he wrote about her for the program disgusted him.

~

Attis, the world's only fully life-like and life-sized mechanical horse, moves with easy grace through, and over, a series of obstacles. Its rider is Desmonica Rienzi, a former dancer, and her natural athleticism brings to the act a daring display of skill and style...

~

He stopped and sat down at a switchback where a shelf of rock overlooked the bay. Cybele hadn't been at the performance. He wanted to see her now, wanted her beside him on the rock. The wind had picked up; he liked the way it felt in his hair. Below, whitecaps glowed in the fading daylight. He thought of the bay near Are No's house and wondered what he might be doing had he never met Dillon. Something made him think of a piece of a song he liked, "take my body to the west/to the ever-flowing river/tell my love I lost my way." If Cybele had somehow arranged everything, he appreciated it. He had left nothing behind, nothing missed, nothing regretted.

~

The acrobats danced, János with Desmonica, and the other three with three new women. Two of the women were stocky, with dark, braided hair and broad faces. The third was taller than the acrobats, with light brown hair. After the peacefulness of being outside, the wail of the saxophone grated on Lewis; he slipped between the flailing bodies to a booth where Gold, Leonora, and Bodyssia sat. Bodyssia got up, offering the inside seat.

"I don't want anybody between me and the food," she said.

He wouldn't stay long. Eat and go back out, sleep in the open air again. "Who are these new women?" he asked.

At another booth Barca, Jenkins, and Perry played cards. No sign of Dillon. He turned to look at the new women, but it was hard to see around Bodyssia. He watched her as she ate. Her red hair, longer than he remembered it, hung loose on her shoulders. He wanted to talk to her but didn't know what to say. She hadn't acknowledged his helping with her act. He needed to be appreciated, if not for his program, then something.

The acrobats and their women stopped dancing and moved to the booth behind Lewis. Their loud, unintelligible talk distracted him from a thought he had been trying to formulate.

"Hi, I'm Lullaby," someone said.

Lewis turned around to see the brown-haired woman take the seat beside Desmonica. Her accent was odd, like the woman who had been with Dawn at Oblong Henry's party. Where was Dawn? Must be in town with the woman. The door on the gymnasium side of the dining car opened and Dillon entered. He nodded at Lewis's table and stopped at the card game table. Jenkins got up.

"All is secure?" Dillon asked.

"Wrapped up and ready to slip our moorings," Jenkins said. Dillon turned and left the room. What did that mean?

Desmonica left her seat and moved to the far wall. She stood facing everyone, with a silly grin on her face like someone laughing at a private joke.

"Hey everybody," she finally said. "I've got an announcement to make." She paused and looked around the room. "János and I are going to have a baby!"

People shouted out their congratulations, but across from Lewis Gold muttered, "Glad it's not mine."

"János and I are going to stay with the circus, but I won't be riding anymore. I don't want to do anything to hurt the baby, and afterwards, I just want to be a mother."

Did Dillon already know about this? When Desmonica was cutting his hair, she had ranted about sex and responsibility. She had said Cinteotl gave her a birth-control drink. Cybele must have arranged the pregnancy. Lewis wondered whether Lullaby or one of the other new women would take over her job. He ought to have some say in the matter. Dillon should consult with him before making a decision. He turned back to his companions. They had pushed their plates to the side, and Bodyssia and Gold were preparing to arm wrestle. Lewis wondered what Cybele would do if he had sex with another woman. Would it provoke her to anger, or approval? Who then—Bodyssia, Dawn, or Miss Linda? Dawn was gay and he had no interest in Miss Linda. Bodyssia's arm flexed; she mashed Gold's hand to the table.

Leonora placed her arm over Gold's shoulders and murmured in his ear. Gold smiled and turned his head to whisper something to her. She kissed his cheek.

"You guys are getting too perky," Bodyssia said, bellowing like she had during her act. "And I need to go check on my critters."

"Are you coming back?" Lewis asked. He thought he sounded too desperate.

"Doubt it. Workout time."

She left. Gold and Leonora picked up their plates and left too. Two of the acrobats had also left, and the remaining two joined the poker game. Lewis got up to talk to the new women, thinking he would conduct a preliminary interview to see which one should be Desmonica's successor.

The dark-haired pair sat on one side, talking to each other in a guttural language. Desmonica and Lullaby sat opposite them chatting and laughing, as though they had been friends for years.

Lewis congratulated Desmonica and sat down opposite them; the dark-haired women slid over to give him more room.

"I like your earrings," he said to Lullaby. They were shaped like a trapeze, with acrobats hanging on them.

"Thank you, thank you," she said, bobbing her head as she spoke. "I get so embarrassed when someone compliments me." She let out a high pitched laugh and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Her laugh annoyed him. She seemed drunk. She would have to be drunk to be with one of those acrobats.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. They're ugly."

She laughed louder, a high-pitched squeak.

"Lullaby and József are dating now," Desmonica said, and Lullaby blushed.

"It's nice to meet you Lullaby. And I don't intend that as a compliment, I say that to everybody, whether I mean it or not."

She tittered again. Bare toes rubbed against his calf. He looked down. Lullaby's. Desmonica glared at him and he moved his leg away.

~

The two dark-haired women were either both from or both named Chala and spoke little English. The interview with them and Lullaby had provided little information of interest. He didn't want Lullaby anywhere near the horse. The other two might do. He would have to talk to Dillon. But now it was time to fix his bed in the meadow. He hadn't eaten. He would take food with him. On the way to Cinteotl's counter his insides lurched; he held the counter for support. Did that mean? The windows clouded over.

They had left.

Cinteotl handed him a plate. But he wasn't ready to leave. One more day, he had thought. Must have had something to do with those men wanting to steal the mechanical horse. Dillon knew what he was doing. Lewis sat at the booth again and looked around. The card game still progressed, now with the addition of two acrobats (János and József, he thought). Everyone else had left. What did he have in common with any of these people? Cybele knew how to make him feel better. But she wasn't here. Restless, he got up to go back to his room. Time for bed. But he didn't want to lie down, didn't want to sleep. He wanted to be out in the salt breeze. Was it last night he had slept outside? He had stared at the stars, seeing Cybele's face in the constellations.

Even before opening his door he knew Cybele was inside. She sat at his desk staring at the cloudy windows. He wondered whether she was able to see through to what lay on the other side of the glass.

She spoke without turning around. "We meet in the ashes of the ether. Courting perception and deception, we walk together for a time."

He was about to touch her cheek, but stopped, picked up the rosemary branch instead, and rubbed it across her bare shoulders. He leaned over until his nose was less than an inch from her skin. The rosemary's scent mingled with hers. He breathed in and smiled.

Part Four

Chapter 20: Improvisation

Lewis walked barefoot on a slope of luminescent glass. To keep from sliding, each step on the slick surface had to be considered with care. Nothing existed outside the realm of his feet, right foot lift, place, left, the same. No looking up lest he disrupt his balance and tumble downward. Once, he paused his upward movement to glance toward the summit, a yellow-white glow he despaired of reaching. And then he was there—so bent had he been on reaching it, he had overshot and taken a few steps down before realizing. Blackness surrounded the hill, a glowing island in a black sea. From the purple-black sky a single eye appeared, staring down, boring into him. He collapsed to his knees and pressed his face into his lap. Eye...blinding...can't look up...can't move. Remain frozen invisible motionlessness...wait for the cold pain of the eye to leave. A subtle breeze passed; he looked up at blue sky and smiled. The glass surface felt warm now, soft and alive. He stood on the slope of a tan hill that vibrated irregularly, as if thumped from the inside. Farther up the hill he found a depression wide and deep enough to cradle his body. About fifty yards ahead, the downward slope gave way to twin, oblong hills, their details blurry in the misty light. Feeling vulnerable, he lowered himself into the depression, luxuriating in the warmth that radiated from the surrounding walls.

"The flora of this area are of particular interest to me," a woman's voice said. Lewis opened his eyes. Dr. Claudia Bricem, his college botany professor, peered down at him. "Two dozen separate species of orchid can be found in this valley alone," she said. Dr. Bricem helped him climb from the hole, and they descended to a grassy plain. Then she was gone.

He found the garden as he remembered it: the limestone path leading to the chicken-wire fence, the rosemary trees, and the rich smell of freshly turned soil. The woman who tended the garden offered him pea pods; he opened one and dropped the peas into his mouth one by one, tasting their crunchy sweetness. The woman smiled at him with Cybele's smile, and a heavy man with gray hair sang a song about cowboys. The man playing pedal steel guitar with him looked like Floyd Perry.

~

"Strong flavors, strong impressions—these are what extend the boundaries of perception," Perry said after Lewis had commented on the bitter but satisfying taste of the ale. "Smoking a cigar while sipping a glass of excellent Scotch..." Perry's voice faded and his face grew dreamy. Then he banged his fist on the table and continued, louder, twisting the syllables into a verbal sneer. "Compare that to having a filtered, menthol cigarette with a so called 'wine cooler.' I know, because I've tried it, and the sensations are too bland to elicit any meaningful responses. People who like those kinds of things aren't worth the words on a page."

The door from the gymnasium side opened, but Lewis didn't bother turning to see who it was.

"I ain't saying you've gotta smoke, better not to smoke at all than to smoke something bland. People saddle their senses with too many filters."

"But what about this train, the recirculated atmosphere?" Lewis asked. "Wouldn't it be better to live someplace with clean, wild air?"

"Sometimes it's hard to make the turn, and what's left behind can't be reclaimed. Especially in our case, when the slightest rearrangement—"

"So, how're you guys doing?" Gold asked.

Lewis wanted to scream. Perry had been about to say something important. It was certain he wouldn't reveal anything around Gold. Neither he nor Perry acknowledged Gold, but Gold kept talking, something about Brisbane's training.

"...interwoven objects. Today was balls and pins. My only regret is that I haven't found a more suitable receptacle in which to pour my wisdom."

Perry rose, claiming he needed to exercise his horse. Gold took Perry's seat and began describing a particular juggling trick he planned to unveil at their next show. He said he had named it for Leonora. Instead of listening, Lewis thought about ways to continue his research into the geometrical aspects of the circus. He envisioned a system of counterbalance wherein each member of the circus registered on a scale displaying their genetic background and reactions to the questions he chose. Maybe the circus could be divided into concentric circles, each a different color, representing different like elements, none of which have a true beginning or end. He admired the pattern on Gold's shirt, a woven grid of red, yellow, and blue. It made him think of fishing nets, or the plan of a compact and ordered city. Would all the buildings be identical if the streets were of uniform dimension? There had to be more variety for people to exist. Individuality would percolate to the surface.

Now Gold was talking about Leonora. "She finally cares about me. Still, she's not quite ready for conjugation. She says she wants to give the relationship time to gel, a process that can sometimes take several months."

Would Cybele continue to excite him so much if they were around each other all the time?

They had sat without speaking, he on the bed watching her, she at his desk, staring at the impenetrable windows. He wanted to say something, but after so long in silence no speech would be monumental enough to warrant giving voice to it. Eventually, he had slept. When he awakened, she had turned the chair to face his bed. She frightened him. He didn't understand what she wanted. Yes, he had desired her, longed for her company, but now...now he wanted someone normal, like Martha.

How could he have left Martha like that? She wasn't so bad. A bit cold, sure, but she meant well. They'd had good times at first, but now, look at this, he had left her for another woman. How could he have done that? No, no, that's not how it happened. He had left her, left Are No's burned-up wreck of a house, but not for another woman. He had run off to join Dillon's circus. Cybele came later.

"Could use a private room though," Gold said. "That would hasten a more fulfilling relationship. Maybe I could get Brisbane to move in with Barca, or Dawn could move in with someone."

Thinking of Cybele reminded him of Desmonica's pregnancy. "Who do you think is going to take over on the horse?" he asked. "Those women with the acrobats?"

"Mere trollops," Gold said.

Gold had a way of twitching his head, which Lewis thought of as "the haughty shake," to be used when showing his superiority: his eyes would roll upward and his bangs would shimmy.

"I doubt that any of them have the coordination for anything besides sexual acrobatics." As if to accentuate, Gold performed a double haughty shake, then smacked his lips, extra proud. "We obviously need someone with drama and charisma, someone who can thrill an audience, who can..."

Who would that be, if none of the new women fit Gold's description? Dillon would have to recruit from the outside, or transfer someone. Dawn perhaps. He liked her, liked the way she looked, so much more a real person than Cybele. Too bad about her sexual preferences—he had thought they might...but how could he even consider another woman, when Cybele...Gold was still talking—did he never stop? Something about playing netball, whatever that was. Lewis ignored him. He wondered what would happen if he continued to sit, lost in his own thoughts while Gold talked on. Would Gold notice that Lewis wasn't listening? Would he eventually leave?

Lewis looked up again and was elated to discover that Gold had left. Then Dillon walked in.

"Good," Dillon said, with a tone suggesting impatience.

"Did you need to see me?" The dining car felt warmer. Was Cinteotl baking something?

"Come, there are several items needing discussion." He turned around and Lewis followed him into the gym. They reached Dillon's door and went inside. "I suppose you know of the situation concerning Desmonica Rienzi?" Dillon asked. He sat behind his desk.

"Her pregnancy?" Lewis couldn't believe Dillon really was going to consult with him about who would ride the horse. He sat opposite Dillon, leaning forward expectantly.

"Lives are always in flux, ours more so. The unexpected is the best friend a performer has. The ability to improvise on any situation is imperative."

Dillon tugged on the drawer where he had placed that gigantic hardbound book on one of Lewis's other visits, Monoli-something-scape. Leaving the drawer partway open, he looked at Lewis as if expecting a response.

Lewis remained seated, refusing to move or say anything until Dillon offered something besides a riddle. Dillon spoke.

"You will be the new rider of the mechanical horse."

Chapter 21: Costumes and Encounters

Lewis browsed fragments and tatters of discarded costumes, looking for...inspiration?...purpose? He wasn't a performer—why had Dillon picked him? Not a secret the horse intrigued him, but...In college, he and a roommate had taken a drama class, more to meet girls than from any desire to perform. Not likely there was anything he could pull out from that—too much time had passed. And the circus, the horse!, this was real, not some made-up scenario from a class. He stopped in front of the armor-covered mannequin. When Lewis was a child, his grandfather had read to him the tales of King Miltos. He had loved the magic and mystery, the swordfights.

He let out a fat groan of exasperation.

This situation came from Cybele's influence. He hadn't asked for her company, her intrusion into his privacy. She would find he wasn't someone who could be manipulated. She was probably sitting in his room, waiting to flaunt her mastery of him. Well, he was in no hurry to see her.

What act could he make from the armor? He lined a shoe up with one of the boots. Appeared to be his size. Might as well try them on. But to remove the boots from the mannequin required taking everything else off first, helmet, sword, chain mail, and tipping it over...He didn't like being in this claustrophobic storage car filled with ghosts of old costumes and long-dead performances. He would have to carry it all back to his (Cybele-free, he hoped) room to try on.

One of the lockers held an empty duffel bag. That would make the stuff easier to handle, and would keep it hidden—he didn't want to be forced to explain the armor to everyone he passed.

~

Barca sat at a dining car booth with Dawn and Leonora, maneuvering three plastic elephants across the tabletop. Lewis paused for a moment near the door, resting the armor-filled duffle on the floor. His shoulder hurt from carrying the bulky load, but he was afraid if he stopped to rest they would ask him what was in the bag. As if it was their business! No one ever asked if he minded being intruded on, not Cybele, or Gold, or Dillon; everyone assumed he was there to be maneuvered around like a toy. Did they think that was what a publicist was for? He lifted the bag to his shoulder and continued.

He wasn't the publicist anymore.

Dawn looked up. "Congratulations Lewis," she said.

How did she know? She smiled at him, and he noted the graceful curve of her arms and shoulders where they emerged from her dark blue tank top. She looked down again at the plastic elephants and started relating something to her companions. As she talked she stretched her arms up over her head. He couldn't stop staring at her underarms, feathery hair, the stretching of her deltoid muscles, the way they joined the biceps at the shoulder, the hollow underneath, especially the hollow, the armpit. It was like an extension of the breast, no, more the inverse of a breast. Dawn clasped her hands and lowered them to the back of her head. There they were, taunting him, twin pockets of seduction.

Conscious of a growing erection pushing against the inside of his jeans, he kept walking, assuming no one would notice. Once in the first residential car he adjusted himself and continued.

Armpits—no, don't call them that, sounded too much like a hygienic eyesore—underarms rather, had never fascinated him. Why now? He thought back to previous girlfriends. What about Martha? He couldn't even picture her underarms. Of course she had them, everyone did. Maybe it had to do with the fitness. Martha had been flabby. Not fat, but not toned like Dawn or these other circus women.

There were probably cultures somewhere that considered underarms erotic. Dawn's called to him. He would kiss her arms, her breasts, working his way around the underarms until the time came to plunge into the moist hollow itself, press his lips directly into the skin and hair, taste her salty flavor.

Now, aroused, he wanted Cybele to be in his room, wanted to explore her underarms, wanted...He opened his door. She had gone, leaving only a residual scent of citrus.

The chain mail and helmet clanked when he dumped the duffel bag onto his bed. He stared at the bag. What right did Cybele have, forcing this on him? He couldn't perform. He was happy in the background, conducting his mathematical research and watching the circus. Now this. How would Dillon put it—thrust from the vault into public exhibition?

But he was tired of being an outsider.

Was Dawn lesbian or bisexual? She had noticed him now that he was a performer. Gold wasn't the only one who would have women follow his performances. He unzipped the bag and unpacked the costume.

Knee-high boots, thick, long-sleeved cotton shirt to go under the chain mail, and a short skirt of leather all fit as though tailored to him. He buckled on the sword belt, slipped the helmet over his head, and turned to the mirror. The helmet had a short brim and hung down over the back of his neck; its top pointed forward. Was that really him? Maybe the outfit would go better with a beard. The metal gleamed in the overhead light. He felt strong. He looked strong. He unsheathed the sword and waved it around, vanquishing imaginary foes.

He would talk to Perry about practicing on Gautier—Dillon hadn't mentioned whether the mechanical horse was available for rehearsing. It would have to be, right? How else could he prepare? Planning an act was the next step, something more exciting than riding around waving his sword. He sagged onto his bed, pushing the helmet off and dropping the sword.

Was he trying to fool himself? This was ludicrous. He couldn't perform. But the sense of freedom when he joined the end of the promenade...that lured him. Nonsense, he couldn't plan an act...but Perry. Perry would be good at that kind of thing, and he would be flattered to be asked. Lewis needed to flatter Perry. Perry knew things. Lewis wanted to know things too, and he would never learn anything from Dillon.

The rosemary on his desk caught his attention—it was in a white ceramic pot about the size of a coffee mug. Cybele must have potted it for him. He had never seen a plant root so fast, though it couldn't have rooted. The part he had pulled off the bush hadn't been green enough.

Someone knocked on his door. He ignored it, but the person knocked harder. Must be Dawn. He wanted to see her, especially while she wore that tank top, but he needed to be alone. The door shook from the knocks. It could only be one person; he got up to answer. Bodyssia loomed in the doorway and his heart started beating faster. She must be ready to kill him, knocking like that. He started to tell her he was sorry.

"Wow, it's Good Prince Lamb."

The costume, he had forgotten he was wearing the costume. He smiled up at her, relieved she wasn't pounding his head into the floor.

Then she did something he wouldn't have thought possible. She curtsied. "Would you be willing to escort a damsel to dinner?"

The day-illumining in the hall had dimmed to night, and as she came into the light of his room, he saw she wore a short denim skirt with a white linen jacket. She had curled her hair too and applied lipstick.

"You look great," he said. "What's the occasion?"

He told her he would change out of his costume and meet her in the dining car. He couldn't risk antagonizing her, not when events had brought him so close to acceptance into the circus, and to show he appreciated her effort, he put on khaki slacks, cream shirt, and black penny loafers, the clothes he had worn his last day at work, before taking the train to Are No's.

~

The dining car had transformed into competing bouquets of minty green. A planter box filled with ivy and ferns now ran along the window sills, spilling greenery onto the tables and down the walls, which had been repainted a warm terracotta. Flowering plants hung from the ceiling in wicker baskets, and on the floor by the counter, a dark-leafed shrub exploded from a red and yellow ceramic pot. The room exuded an atmosphere of expectation, as if the bones of the train welcomed Lewis into his new role.

But hadn't he just walked through here with the sack of armor? He must have been so preoccupied with his new role (and the shape of Dawn's underarms) that he hadn't noticed the changes. No—before that...before that...sitting...listening to Gold.

A hand gripped his elbow. "Hey prince," Bodyssia said, her voice soft.

Why were his knees resting on the floor?

"Felt faint for a second," he said, lifting himself back up. "I'm okay now."

Cinteotl bowed to them. "Good evening, my fine customers. A many-limbed banquet awaits you, dish after succulent dish." He reached behind the counter for a white linen cloth and placed it over one of the tabletops. They sat. Bodyssia took off her jacket, revealing a black, silky-looking tank top. When she twisted around to drape the jacket over the back of the bench seat, Lewis stared at her newly revealed underarms, banded by muscle, deep and mysterious.

Cinteotl returned with a candle in a silver candlestick, bottle of wine, and two glasses. He bowed again, filled the glasses, and left.

Bodyssia raised her glass. "Forlorn, unborn, shining sunrise, come to me now in warm embrace," she said, and he clinked his glass to hers. "Soft sky, lie upon the world. Steal away my soul on freight of gold. Shake yourself free of dust and time."

He found himself enjoying her flow of language and expression, so out of character for her. No one on the circus train was ever what they first appeared to be. Perry, with his books and metal, Dillon and his pennywhistle, Dawn...

"How often I lie outside where the winds blow dark. I follow a path laid by each step as I take it."

They finished a course and Cinteotl brought another. Lewis felt as though he was stocking up on food, preparing his body for a time when he would have none.

Feasting over, Bodyssia picked up her jacket and reached for his hand. She rose from the table, pulling him along. "Away with us to abodes of silken splendor." She draped an arm over his shoulders, forcing him to match her long stride. He lay his palm on her back, feeling the thick muscle beneath the fabric.

Her room had no furniture besides a futon mattress on the floor. The walls were bare white. A pile of straps and balls from her animal act lay in a corner.

"Oh, pleasures honed by honest labor, I claim this moment of our choosing." She picked him up and kissed him.

Where should he put his hands and what should he do with them? He couldn't imagine trying to undress her. She put him down and started unbuttoning his shirt. He surprised himself by unzipping her denim skirt. The skirt fell; she kicked it off, then bent to remove her shoes. He did the same with his own. When he looked up, she had taken off her shirt...muscles and skin, so much skin. She reached for his penis, so insignificant beside her long, thick fingers. An erection would be impossible.

"Pale member, may you find comfort soon," she said, and kissed him there. She lowered herself onto the bed, pulling him after.

He started trembling, a slow shake that began at the toes and continued up his torso. She kissed his lips, then his chest. Why was he trembling? He touched her stomach, felt the hard muscle there, then slid both shaky hands along her sides to her breasts, unintentionally slipping the fingers of his right hand into the warm space of her underarm. She pulled him inside her and grunted; she cried louder, shook him, held his hips and moved him back and forth until she orgasmed, a soft, sweet whisper, then he did too, inhaling sharply with it.

She held him tight, keeping him inside her. Half expecting her to disappear like Cybele, he stroked her chest and stomach, kissed her breasts; she smiled and closed her eyes. After a minute or so, she relaxed her grip. She started snoring.

He lifted himself off her, gathered his clothes, and dressed.

When he reached his car, Dawn was coming toward him. It looked like she had been rehearsing. She wore tights and had pinned her hair up. Her long-sleeved top covered her underarms.

"There you are, big guy, all dressed up nice and pretty."

He couldn't help laughing. After being with Bodyssia, it relieved him to encounter someone so much smaller.

"Well I guess you're glad to see me too." She reached up to kiss him. He could smell elephant all over her. "I got here just as soon as I finished rehearsing. I was going back to my room to get paper to leave you a note."

Note about what? He hoped this wouldn't take long, whatever she wanted. As he opened his door to let her in, he had a sudden tinge that Cybele be there, but the room was empty.

"I brought something to toast your new part." She held up a bottle of wine.

Dawn's newfound interest confused him, but then so had Bodyssia's. Everything conspired to throw him off balance.

"Luck, lights, and love," she said as she handed him a glass. "May the spotlight always give us happiness." They sipped. She stepped closer to kiss him again, then put her glass down on his desk. "Can I borrow a shirt? I want to get out of these stinky things."

He chose his tank top, a long-waisted basketball jersey from his college intramural team. The shirt would fit her like a dress. He handed it to her, wondering whether she would take off her clothes in front of him, but she went into the bathroom.

While she changed, he opened his journal and sat at the desk. Sex unlocks, he wrote, disassembles miniature puzzles and hides the pieces, each in its own universe, each whole even when apart, each taking on a semblance...Dawn emerged wearing his shirt. She raised both hands to the back of her head to unclasp her hair. He looked at her underarms, which had excited him so much when he saw them in the dining car, and found himself getting another erection. He needed to be close to them, press his lips in deep. He had barely brushed the surface of Bodyssia's, but Dawn, here before him, hers would be his treasure. When she sat on his lap he thought of the reversal of positions from his encounter with Bodyssia, but when she kissed him he stopped thinking.

Later, it was his turn to fall asleep and hers to leave. He heard her open and close the door. A few minutes later, he got up and went into the bathroom. When he came out, Cybele was sat at his desk, staring into the cloudy windows and stroking the rosemary. At least she's clothed, he thought, noting her sleeveless green dress, tied at the waist with a supple vine. She rose and pulled the vine apart. Her dress crumpled at her feet.

He was still naked, and as she reached toward him, he watched, amazed, as his penis grew erect to meet her fingers.

She released him and sat on the bed, waiting. He gazed at her, wondering how he could ever have loved anyone else. She raised her arms to bare their underside, and he rushed toward them, burying his face in the warm, tangerine-scented hair and skin.

~

He awoke curled fetus-like beside her, his head resting beneath her breasts. He was surprised, and pleased, to find her still there. With her skin against his face, a gentle scent of citrus flowed over him, like waking beneath blooming orange trees. He slowly became aware of his hands pressed against her thighs, and began to stroke her stomach. She stirred, but didn't wake; he pressed his cheek into her breasts. Despite her concrete presence in his bed, she remained an apparition to him.

She placed a hand on top of his head and he turned his face toward hers. "Good morning," he said, trying to act casual. "I'm starved—how about we go see what Cinteotl's got for breakfast."

With a look suggesting deep, unspoken significance, she handed him a stone figurine, an abstract, female form about the size of his thumb. The stone was black with gold veins; it warmed his palm, and he stared at it, wondering if the warmth came from her having held it, or if it radiated its own heat.

"Thank you. It's my treasure." He kissed her; she sank back into the mattress, bringing him with her.

Chapter 22: Rehearsal

A banging on the door woke Lewis from a dream of flying horses. He sat up, confused. What would happen if Bodyssia broke in and found Cybele in his bed? But Cybele wasn't in his bed. Her disappearance was unsettling. He had thought: this time she'll stay. The figurine lay on the desk. Not wanting whoever was out there to see it, he put it in a drawer. The knocking started again. "I'm coming," he said, and pulled on underwear and shorts.

Perry, not Bodyssia. "Come on, we've got to rehearse."

What was Perry talking about? He stood in the doorway, staring at the jockey. Perry reached up and shook his shoulder. "Get it together, man, there's work to do."

"I'm ready. Meet you in the dining car? Need coffee."

Lewis sat on the edge of his bed. Horse, something about the horse...socks, those blue ones would do...whose eyes were blue? Perry wanted to rehearse with the horse...their act...that would be it, their act...hadn't prepared an act, he would put on the blue socks though, that would make a good start, and pants, boots even, if he was going to be getting on that horse, the real one, not the flying horse. No, the flying horse had been the dream. Cybele's horse didn't fly.

For luck, he took Cybele's figurine from the drawer and slipped it into a pocket.

Perry waited while Lewis drank a cup of coffee and ate a banana. When they reached the elephant car, Dawn and Leonora had finished their own rehearsal, and Barca was moving the elephants into the meadow pen. Dawn waved to Lewis. He wondered how she would act around him. Would she acknowledge their liaison publicly? And if she did, what about Bodyssia?

He sat on a stool while Perry tethered Gautier in the practice area and removed a saddle from a storage bin. Leonora and Barca left, but Dawn stayed. As she walked toward him, Lewis thought about what his sex with her had been like. He remembered few specifics past his excitation on seeing her underarms. The memory embarrassed him. Wouldn't she find such an attraction odd? He had never thought of himself as someone with sexual fetishes. And Cybele had known, had raised her arms to snare him. Despite the constant arousal Cybele brought him, he appreciated Dawn's humanity. At least he could, after a fashion, understand her. She stood close to him now, brushing her thigh against his and touching his arm while she spoke about how much she had enjoyed their time together.

Perry called to him. Dawn left. Until now, the significance of what was about to occur hadn't reached him. In the elephant pen the distant trees shook in an unnatural breeze. Prisms of neon emblems rattled through the mists outside the windows. How would he be able to perform in public? His life up to this point meant nothing. His future held Cybele, the horse, the circus. He found himself on the horse, Perry's horse, with Perry leading. Perry was saying something about their script being almost ready. Lewis hadn't been on a horse since summer camp, twelve, fifteen years ago. The gray walls held a texture previously hidden. They reminded him of trees. The train lived. It breathed, it changed, it comforted.

~

"Hard work has its rewards, both concrete and existential," Perry said. He closed the gate of Gautier's stall and followed Lewis. "It opens the possibility of perceiving a wider variety of situations, experiencing more flavors, sights, sounds." When they reached the dining car he told Lewis to wait there for him to get the script.

Lewis sat at a booth, staring at the clouded windows. Along paths obscure they moved to faraway places. He had lost the desire to leave. The circus had taken him. He reached into his pocket to touch Cybele's warm figurine.

Bodyssia walked into the dining car. A pink sweatsuit wasn't something he had expected her to wear. It softened her, brought her closer to his size. Funny how color affected perception; he would have to experiment...

"Prince Lamb!" Her bellow shook him out of his contentment. She picked him up and hugged him.

"You can't do this," he said, trying to be forceful, but with his face mashed into her neck the words came out muffled.

"What's that, dear?" She held him out from her so he could speak. He had a sudden vision of her pulling Dawn's arms off. He would have to take care not to anger her. At least she was no longer speaking poetic nonsense. Dangling in her grasp gave everything a new perspective and not one he enjoyed.

Bodyssia suggested meeting after her workout. When Perry returned, carrying a blue notebook, she lowered him. His feet touched down on the yellow floor. He had rarely seen Perry and Bodyssia standing together. She must have been a foot and a half taller. Perry and Dawn were about the same height; Bodyssia could break either of them apart.

She reached down to put a hand on Perry's shoulder. "Hey, I was thinking about what you were saying about the difference between chronological and spatial dimensions. It only makes sense if the medium is elastic enough to allow movement in all directions."

"Exactly, and in most instances it isn't. It needs a catalyst."

She turned toward the gymnasium car. "See you, Prince."

"What was that about chronological...?"

"Something we discussed after a recent show. I ramble on about odd theories, and our companions like to humor me." Perry set his notebook on the table. "Come on now, we have a script to work through."

He opened the notebook and motioned Lewis to come closer. "I've adapted a section of a play. See here, at the beginning? I go first, then when you approach I challenge you, 'I am Thaliard of Antioch, Me pompae provexit apex. And who art thou, mean knight?' Then you say an aside, then speak to me, then we fight."

Dawn entered. She had changed into a black leather miniskirt and sleeveless black tee shirt. Had they arranged a meeting?

"I'm not smelly now." she said, and kissed him. What would Perry be thinking, first Bodyssia, now Dawn?

Perry handed Lewis the script. "Take this back to your room and copy it over. And learn it." He left.

"You know, I just never know what to make of Floyd," Dawn said. "I hate to talk badly about someone, but he scares me sometimes, like once he showed me a book on witchcraft."

"He likes books. So it could have just been a book that had a particular significance in its bindery, or it might have been a rare..." She pushed her tongue into his mouth and he forgot what he had been saying. She kept pushing, with her tongue and with her body until he found himself flat on the table with her on top. Someone would come in...clatter had to be Cinteotl...Bodyssia...

Dawn pulled away. "I'll save the rest for later," she said.

He had better leave now, before anyone else appeared. But as he got up Bodyssia emerged from the door Dawn had just passed through.

"Hey Prince, you're not leaving."

Could he get out the door before she reached him? "I have to go work on my act. You know how it is." He spoke with as much strength as he could with her rumbling toward him.

"Well I gotta eat something, so you just go do your thing."

Her dismissal relieved him. What if she had seen Dawn on top of him? He hadn't asked for attention from either of them and couldn't be responsible for anything...

"Cute guy." she said, surrounding him with a bear-hug and lifting him. "Now don't forget about later." She put him down.

Chapter 23: A Promising Place

The emptiness of his room relieved him. He wasn't ready for another encounter with Cybele. What would his cohorts think if they found out about her? Gold would be jealous at his having such a secretive and mysterious lover. The thought of Gold walking in while Cybele sat naked on his desk made him smile.

He spread Perry's script and his legal pad on the desk and started copying.

~

Mean knight you say, and so it seems

Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan

The outward habit for the inward man.

And who I am, as my actions shall show

A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles;

~

He couldn't learn this. Sure, in his acting class he had memorized a few short sections of things, but nothing so involved. Ride the mechanical horse, remember his lines...impossible. Pillows of cream...clouds on the ground...aspic. Taking Cybele's figurine from his pocket, he set it on the desk and stared at it, then sketched it on the page beside his script, letting its curves soothe him.

His forehead rested on the legal pad. Nothing down there that a little hard work can't...what did Betty Jo always say? Bodyssia and Dawn, neither of them helped him once they found out about...Who the fuck was Betty Jo? God, he must have fallen asleep. He would shower, that would wake him, then he could finish copying. In the shower he felt a sudden queasiness, and on leaving the bathroom, a cloudless blue sky hovered outside his windows. Far away, dark shapes moved through acres of grass.

~

Outside, standing on the caboose landing, Lewis inhaled scents of grass and earth. Warm air caressed him, whispered through the tall grasses. Parallel rails stretched from the train to the edge of the world. On one side of the tracks, buildings, and beyond them, a river; on the other side, nothing but the grass. Dillon stood near the rails, hand shielding his eyes from the sun, gazing out at the grassy ocean.

Lewis walked toward him, passing a sign that said, in large green letters: prairie reconstruction project. Distant bison roamed the high grass. The sun, the bright sun, warmed his cheeks after so long in the train without. Pale blue, the mood lingered. The grass was the sea, and the bison whales surfacing for air. Each time he saw them he imagined a geyser erupting from their blowholes. Their cries, like humpbacks, filled his ears.

"A promising place, this, do you not agree?" asked Dillon.

A crow landed on the railing of the caboose. Its appearance startled Lewis, the sleek, blue-black body. And its eyes—what did it know? The single crow always portends tragedy.

"I have tried many times to direct our path here, but this is my first success; the intangibles have coalesced, fueled by new energies perhaps. We should consider it a sign that you are ready to begin this new chapter of your career."

It took a moment for Lewis to realize that Dillon referred to a performance. "I can't." He stared at the crow, acid bird of hopelessness, expecting it to utter a gloating laugh. "Script's not ready...trying to polish on paper." His breath dissipated, pulled from him by disdainful magnets orbiting the plain of bison.

"You are publicist no longer. The circus does not perform on paper. We take our acts before the people. Where we fail, we study and change, where we succeed, we toil further."

The crow squawked twice and flew off, low over the tall grass, and Lewis's speech returned. "But I have lines to learn. Haven't even practiced on the horse."

"Follow me then, and find your confidence within."

Lewis walked behind Dillon through the silent train. They stopped at the door to the empty storage car. "Wait outside," Dillon said; he shut the door behind him.

Cybele had to be in there, helping Dillon prepare the mechanical horse, but he heard only a faint shuffling noise, then a scraping followed by a low whir. Dillon opened the door. The mechanical horse stood in the middle of the room.

"Incredible," Lewis said, awed by the brass and enamel, the smooth sides. This wasn't the first time he had been close to it, he had even mounted, but here, with no one else around, its appearance overwhelmed him. "I can get on?"

Dillon nodded.

Lewis grasped the pommel and pulled himself up. The horse's sides chilled his bare legs, but the smooth leather saddle comforted. "How do you make it go?"

"Easily," Dillon said.

Lewis lifted the reins and nudged the horse's sides with his heels. It walked forward. "I can't believe this," he said. He felt a silly grin taking over his face, and he let it, allowing the realm of excitement to take him. He walked the horse around the car. "I wish there was room to make it go faster," he said. He pulled the reins back to stop. "It moves so easily. I thought it would have to be programmed, like a clockwork toy, or worked by a second party with radio control or something. It's so life-like."

Dillon motioned toward the door. "I must return the treasure to its vault. I will bring it to the theater as usual, and from there it is up to you."

Lewis didn't want to dismount, but he knew better than to argue with Dillon. He would ride again soon.

~

The rousing aroma of baking transfixed him. Soft and warm, together with a longing he had thought lost since...no, before Martha. She had been an excuse, not the source. His lack of feeling began before that, when no one would stop his cousin from hitting, not his parents, not his uncle, as though they wanted to see him suffer. "When the going gets tough the tough get going, and the little weak-os give up," his uncle, Mr. Junior High School Football Coach, had often said to him. None of them would do a thing for him.

Cinteotl had been talking. "Feat viewed rarely and never the same way twice." He pressed down on a ball of dough. "A transformation taught to me by my old friend Alessandro, in which fire, earth, air, and water take a form both nourishing and delectable. Something eaten by princes and peasants, emperors and plebes.

"And what, you might ask, is this miracle of the kitchen? For of course it is the kitchen of which I speak. If you will put on this blindfold." He handed Lewis a dishtowel smelling of yeast. "While I perform the final, secret step."

Lewis tied it around his eyes.

"Now, essence of this, and parcel of that, and you may view the result."

Lewis pulled off the towel and gazed at the flat loaf in front of Cinteotl.

"Bravo, Cinteotl, but I don't know if I can stand waiting for it to bake," Lewis said.

"And that, my friend, is the magic of it all. For I have, before your arrival, baked several lustrous loaves. You have but to request one, and it shall be yours." Without waiting for Lewis to speak, he pulled a loaf from a compartment beneath the counter and slipped it onto a plate.

Lewis carried the loaf to a booth. Soon, he would be performing, riding Cybele's horse. Perry would have to help him, Perry and everyone else, all those manipulating, egotistical performers; and after, he would be a full member, fellow performer seeking dreams and magnificence. Was that what he sought? He jumped to his feet and ran back toward his room, but stopped. Not his room—Cybele would be there. He knew it and he couldn't face her now. He kept moving, thinking he would go out to the plains and watch the bison, but at the door to the white room he stopped, took hold of the clicking knob, and entered.

~

The light held more substance than before, as though dense particles were attempting to transmute into solid. Shapes swirled around him like the inverse of shadows. As a child, he had seen shapes in the dark of his bedroom at night. He liked these better, these shapes of light. Their configurations changed with each step, strange geometries of multidimensional abstractions, biomorphic forms mixed with isosceles triangles. The light grew softer as he walked, with more yellow and a hint of blue. The shapes became more difficult to see. They blended with the light.

He walked forward, into the white mist. Each step became a breath, in-step, out-step. He lengthened his breath, allowed it to ease out, counting to four, in-four, out-four, until he had the rhythm. Now he floated in white. The space defined him. The breath carried him. Breathe, let the whiteness calm him. Walk.

~

The facts as he knew them:

1. The train visited places he had never known to exist;

a. when the train began transit, his stomach lurched;

b. the windows clouded;

2. None of the other performers commented on any of this.

~

If anyone, besides Dillon of course, had an awareness of their situation, it would be Perry. Now that he was performing with Perry, he could get closer to him, win his confidence, engender trust. He would have to take care not to appear too eager. Answers wouldn't come easily. He would be subtle but persistent. In the end, he would understand everything.

Stillness enveloped him. Inhale-step, exhale-step. He walked no more, no less, than necessary. Each breath-step brought him closer, took him farther.

Chapter 24: Scheduling Conflict

Lewis's costume both soothed and excited him. Its weight, the way he looked in the mirror: mysterious, strong, bold. He had nothing to worry about—the costume would protect him as the white room protected him. As Cybele protected him. He had hoped to find her waiting for him when he returned to his room to change for his first time riding her horse. So that was how it would be. No help from her when he needed it most. On his own...as always.

He went to see if Perry needed help with Gautier, but the stall was empty. He couldn't be late, not to his first performance. The door-ramp in the elephant car was open, and he hurried down. Nearby was a brick building with a doorway wide enough for the circus animals and equipment. Inside, Perry and Desmonica tied red and blue ribbons to Gautier's bridle.

Perry wore a shining suit; he had covered his jockey clothing with interlocking pieces of paper-thin brass. Desmonica...she wore her costume...all those leather straps...why? Dillon couldn't have changed his mind. Not when...

"There's Lewis," she said, shaking Perry's shoulder. "I'm helping get you two ready. Figured I'd wear my costume till I can't fit into it."

"Let's keep it uncomplicated our first time," Perry said.

They discussed their act; he showed Lewis the wooden sword that Jenkens had made for him, which he had then covered with a thin layer of bronze.

A gaunt man entered the room from outside, followed by two giants—one a blond, the other dark skinned. The gaunt man stopped when he saw the circus crew, then walked over to Perry and Lewis. From the door he had looked taller, but he was about Lewis's height, though much lighter.

"Pardon me," the man said. His voice had a smooth tone, though not as smooth as Dillon's. "You appear to have made a mistake. My group is performing in this facility. I suggest that you leave now."

It took a moment for Lewis to register what the man said. He looked at Perry.

"I don't think so," Perry said. The gaunt man smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant smile. Lewis felt queasy.

"Yes, well, we might be able to do something to convince you. Force would be the best way, don't you think?

Perry tried to calm him. "I suppose there could be a scheduling conflict, gentlemen. Allow me to get my manager and I'm sure we can resolve..."

"Falco?" The gaunt man waved a hand at the blond giant. "I would say fifteen minutes should be sufficient to clear the room."

Gold called out from somewhere behind them. "Hey, you're Horton the Ringmaster, the pimp—Frank Conners! I'd recognize you anywhere." He rushed over to them.

Gold's recognition didn't appear to impress Horton/Connors. "You're correct, I'm Frank Conners, and you're about to swallow your teeth, buckaroo." He clapped his hands twice. Falco grabbed Gold's shirt and twisted the fabric tight.

Without thinking, Lewis drew his sword and swung it up. The blade chopped into Falco's left bicep. He yelled and grabbed his arm. Perry jumped onto his horse and rode down on the dark giant, who stumbled backward. Gold punched Connors, and Perry struck the dark giant on the head with the pommel of his sword. Bodyssia arrived and raised Conners over her head.

"I doubt that you even remember me Conners, or Horton," Gold said. "But you did me ill once upon a time, and I haven't forgotten."

Dillon hurried over. "Good, Bodyssia, hold this gentleman. The rest of you—we load up immediately." Several of them began disassembling the circus's equipment. Lewis stood holding his sword. He stared at the blade. It had cut so fast that no blood stained its shine. József called out that he found a basement; they pushed the giants down the stairs, tossed Conners on top of them, and closed the door.

"I'm buying the beer!" Gold said when they reached the dining car. "I knew I'd get that bastard back someday." The acrobats applauded. Dillon stood nearby. He muttered something, then left.

Lewis had stabbed a man, hadn't even stopped to think. He knew the sword had an edge, he had swung blindly, could have easily killed...the train lurched, his insides fluttered, and the windows frosted over. Dawn handed him a bottle of beer and guided him to a booth.

"Who were those toad-faced thugs?" she asked.

Lewis pressed the cold bottle to his forehead. "Gold told me about this Conners-Horton character," he said. "Runs a circus prostitution ring. Never thought we'd run into him."

~

The windows cleared, revealing the same scene of oceanic grass and, on the other side of the car, the buildings of the town from which they had recently fled. Dillon entered the dining car. "Ready for another round?" he asked, and everyone cheered.

Dillon led them to the elephant car, where all the equipment remained as they had left it. He opened the portal, and the acrobats, singing a song in their native tongue, picked up their trampolines and carried them down the ramp. The rest followed. Lewis was about to proceed after them when Miss Linda appeared.

"Is it safe to go out there?" she asked.

"Looks okay to me. Can I escort you?" Without waiting for an answer, he held her gloved hand in his. The ground outside, which had been dry before, squished as they walked into the brick building. With the performance immanent, he couldn't even think about what was happening, how they had returned to the same place, sans Horton/Connors. The crew rushed around, readying things. Jenkins told Lewis to help him carry a section of the metal lattice into the ring.

Throughout their promenade he held Miss Linda's hand, more to calm his own nerves than for her benefit—she at least was used to being in front of an audience. He kept his gaze ahead, on the backs of Bodyssia and her animals.

The performance proceeded as a blur. He couldn't allow himself to think of anything but the breath. Yes, acts followed, much applause given to both Gold and the acrobats...his turn soon. Dillon appeared with the horse, and Lewis mounted. He chased Perry around the arena twice; when he caught him, Perry raised his sword in defense, then they raced away from each other in the opposite direction, met again on the other side, clashed swords, raced, clashed, and bowed to the audience.

He pointed the mechanical horse to the ramp, where, once away from the spotlight, he tried to relax against the pain that knifed through his tight shoulder muscles. He had pulled something, from the tension no doubt. He had a minute to catch his breath, then it was time for the final promenade, and the show was over. Backstage again, he dismounted and hurried to a restroom, where he vomited into the sink.

Chapter 25: Flood

Morning light, though not much brighter than the window's clouded state, woke Lewis. He looked out to a gray sky. The rain had stopped, but the high grass had a sodden look. Scattered patches were beaten down, perhaps by hail, though he hadn't heard any striking the roof of the train. Tough break, he thought, first chance in ages for real outside, and the weather hadn't cooperated. He didn't care—he would go out anyway. He wondered what everyone had done after the show. Last night, he had been too exhausted to care; he had gone straight to sleep. Surprised him though that Cybele hadn't made an appearance, his first time on her horse and all.

Tears, why tears? He had never loved Martha, but to leave her like that, without a word. No one deserved that. No, Cybele couldn't have left. What would be the point of maneuvering him onto the horse and disappearing? She would return. She had to return.

Someone knocked, and Lewis went to open the door. Perry, in costume. "Come on now, rehearsal," he said.

Had they planned something? Everything and everyone flowed together. Perry left to prepare Gautier. Lewis sat on the bed with his costume partly on and started crying again. Why all this emotion now? A breeze from the bathroom blew a scent of lemon into the room, followed by Cybele.

"She doesn't miss you," Cybele said. She turned away, then winked out, as though she could crack time and slip out between the seconds. It was the first time he had been looking at her when she left.

He finished putting on his costume and went to join Perry. They ran through the script first on foot, then again, alternating on Gautier. The act of concentration gave him confidence. He liked what Perry had done. He even liked performing it.

~

Perry chose to accompany Lewis on an exploration of the town. They exited from the elephant car and walked beside the train, which occupied a siding behind the performance hall. The train looked different than the last time he had seen it from outside, sleeker, sides clad in reddish metal. The engine had a high cab above a long, tubular front. He didn't see anyone in the cab. Who drove the train? Dillon controlled it, obviously. Maybe Dillon didn't allow the driver to mix with the performers.

Opposite the engine, Lewis paused. Shouldn't there have been more train before the engine? What about the diminishing tunnel car?

He caught up to Perry, and they turned onto the street that ended at the performance hall, passing storefronts and houses. Yesterday he had been too nervous about performing to notice the wind, but today, its constant push and hum unnerved him. Wind had contorted the few trees into mad shapes, antlered gnomes, inverted octopi. How could people live in this wind? They would all become twisted like the trees.

Farther along, the houses gave way to small farms. In one yard, a cream-colored goat with the horns, in miniature, of a longhorn bull, stood on its hind legs and danced for an audience of female goats. When they passed the animals, the horned goat stared fixedly at Lewis. Its black eyes appeared to hold some hidden promise.

A drizzling rain began. The overcast sky offered no expectation of relief.

"We should head back," Perry said.

They turned down a narrow lane that led back in the direction of downtown. It joined another road running along a riverside park. The rain came down harder. A small bus pulled out of the park and turned toward the town. They jogged after it, but slowed when it didn't stop for them.

The road drew closer to the river, and fifty or so yards farther, they passed a driveway leading to a floating restaurant, a barge chained to a dock. They crossed a wooden footbridge to enter. A man seated them in a booth by windows looking out at the river and opposite bank.

Lewis mopped his face and hair with his cloth napkin. "I swear the river's risen since we started out this morning," he said. "I wonder if they have a flooding problem—see those buildings on the other side?" He pointed to a small, frame church listing with one corner in the water.

While they were eating their salads, the barge shimmied, but none of the other diners appeared concerned.

Lewis found himself with little to say. While walking, they had discussed their act, but neither seemed inclined to continue. There were other things he wanted to talk about, questions he would like answered, but he didn't know where to start. The overpowering presence of Cybele muted him. How wonderful it would be with her as companion instead of the enigmatic jockey. Having finally ridden the horse in performance, he felt somewhat deflated, as if public exhibition dulled what had previously been his private obsession. And it was so much work! Rehearsal, discussion, rehearsal, performance...He looked out the window, thinking that more of the church was standing in the water.

"Doesn't all of this wear you out?" Lewis asked. "Performing, I mean," he added, realizing Perry hadn't been following his internal monologue.

"Satisfaction gives a body energy," Perry said. "And I find our current enterprise much more nourishing than the previous one. The dramatic interplay alone serves to fuel countless additional permutations."

The waiter brought a platter of fried fish. A few minutes later, the barge jerked again, then rose sharply. Sounds of splintering wood and scraping metal filled the room. Two men sitting at the next table dropped their forks and ran to the exit. Lewis and Perry stood. Now, everyone moved to the exit, rushing over the footbridge to land. There were maybe fifteen people, including the wait and kitchen staff. One of the cooks had wrapped a napkin around his hand and a red stain showed through. He told someone he had cut himself when the barge jerked. Across the river, the church collapsed into the onrushing current. Its steeple sheared off and floated downstream.

Lewis and Perry decided to return to the train, but a crack from behind made them look back at the restaurant. The barge's bow chain had parted, and the bow swung out with the current.

"Everyone got off in time," Lewis said.

Then a man appeared at the door. He screamed and took a step to where the end of the footbridge protruded from the deck. Someone on shore shouted for him to stay on the barge. He stood at the railing as the distance to shore grew, then he jumped. Lewis cried out. He disappeared in the swirl of water.

A man ran, howling, to the river's edge; another man grabbed his arm, but he flailed, hitting the other man and knocking him down. Perry and a woman wearing a chef's apron blocked his way, and he collapsed, sobbing.

"You can't jump too," the chef woman said. "Drown, you'll drown." She sank to her knees beside the man and held him.

"Let's go," Perry said. Lewis's chest hurt. He gasped and inhaled. He had been holding his breath. They trudged back toward the train. The parting of the barge's chain kept replaying in Lewis's head, that cracking sound, he had never heard anything like it. If the man had stayed on the barge, someone would have found a way to save him.

They entered the train and walked down the corridor in silence. Lewis paused at his door, then continued, not wanting to see Cybele. They went into Perry's room. Perry pulled out his bottle of Bourbon, filled two glasses. Lewis slumped into one of the chairs, suddenly unable to stay on his feet. He sat looking at the liquid in his glass.

"We were here," Lewis said. "We had a fight. We left. We're back, but it's rainy where it was dry before. Would that man have died if we'd stayed away?"

"Don't you understand? It's never the same!" Perry banged his glass on the desk, sloshing liquor onto its surface. "We were warned, all of us." He reached into a drawer for a pad of paper and drew a circle in the middle of the top sheet, holding it up so Lewis could see. "So many complexities. I've seen a world without books..." He shivered, then drew several other circles around the first circle. "I have a mother somewhere. All these orbiting spheres, some with orbiting spheres of their own, countless spheres, all owing something to the source sphere. Look for constants. Oblong Henry. Sometimes his books are different. Other times he's not there."

Perry's talk of spheres reminded Lewis of his plan for concentric circles to describe the train. He preferred circles—spheres—no sharp angles. Perry was still talking; he had a book out, said something about pure shapes and their effect on objects. Stone circles, those had meant something. Did the people who made them know the planet was round? Lewis couldn't remember whether the belief in a flat earth was an affectation of medieval scholars. Ancient people were smarter somehow. Cybele, she was worshipped by the ancients. She must be what powers the train. Dillon said the train seemed to have more energy—after Cybele made him have sex with everyone. That made more sense than what Perry was saying.

"And Dillon's role—is he caught between the spheres or is he what stabilizes them? Perhaps he's forever seeking the birth sphere. I don't know whether to search for answers in science or mythology." Perry crumpled the paper on which he had drawn the spheres. "Look, I need to be alone now. We've got a performance later."

Lewis tipped back his Bourbon and drank it down.

Back in his room, Cybele massaged his face. The welcome pressure of her fingers calmed him. Perry had revealed something important, but Perry didn't know about Cybele. Understanding would come to Lewis through his contact with her, an intimacy reserved to him, her exclusive companion in love.

~

Lewis and Perry moved their horses forward. Offstage, kettledrums thumped.

~

Lewis: I, borne upon the river's bosom

Likened to a lover, yet not so free,

Denounce your insinuations.

Perry: Then to arms, noble Pericles,

And your fortunes may yet flourish.

Lewis: Also to you, noble Thaliard;

I'll show the virtue I have borne in arms.

~

Each time they brought their swords together cymbals crashed. They swung at each other, thrusting and parrying. As they fenced, they steered the horses around the arena, fighting and riding so that everyone in the audience could see. After two circuits they returned to the middle, and Lewis knocked Perry's sword from his hand.

~

Perry: The day is yours, Lord Pericles

And here, I hope, is none that envies it.

In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed,

To make some good, but other to exceed.

Lewis: You are a right courteous knight;

Then honor be but equal to my will.

Which, to preserve mine honor, I'll perform.

~

Their act over, they turned to the audience; Perry dipped his chin, and Lewis held his sword above his head and swept it downward dramatically as he bowed from the waist. The crowd applauded, and they moved off stage. Lewis had never experienced such an immediate rush of pleasure. He had been surprised to find the performance well attended. After what happened on the river he had expected the show to be cancelled. Enjoying himself so much seemed insensitive. But that was part of the ancient trust—he and his fellows transported their audience to the realm of pleasure, allowing them respite from pain.

When they came back out with the rest of the circus for the closing procession, Lewis again waved his sword, feeling like an ancient conqueror. He hoped it would never end.

Backstage, Dillon took the horse as usual. Emotions poured through Lewis. He wanted to walk the streets of the town in costume, where he could be recognized by all who had attended. But no, that wouldn't be proper. Outside of the arena he returned to anonymity.

From behind, Dawn called out his name. "Come on, you be the metal horsy," she said and jumped on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanna ride the metal horsy!" She squeezed his waist with her legs. "Come on horsy, take me home. Go and go and go." She leaned back and waved her arms in the air; her sudden movement threw off his balance. They fell. He landed with his head in her lap. "Metal Horsy fall ouch. My butt hurts," she said.

Chapter 26: Immaculate Conception

As rehearsal flowed into rehearsal and performance into performance, Lewis fell into a trance. The timelessness of the train combined with the demands of performing left him numb to his surroundings, dampened his inquisitiveness. The novelty of becoming a performer gave way to the work, the repetition. Every show unfolded like the one before, and he began to see them only in terms of his own part. A scattered few stood out: one in which Gautier nearly threw Perry, another when Lewis dropped his sword while galloping after Perry and didn't know whether he should stop to pick it up or keep going (he kept going, and Miss Linda ran out to pick it up and hand it to him as he came back around) and, the worst performance of all, in a tent on a day so hot and humid Lewis was sure he wouldn't survive the afternoon. He thought he would become bored with his lines, but they became so automatic he hardly noticed himself speaking.

Dawn and Bodyssia appeared to have lost interest in him. He didn't know or care why. Save for their lack of romantic attention, neither behaved any different toward him. Both treated him as a friend and fellow performer. He supposed any insulated group was like that. Newcomers were treated with caution and curiosity. Conversely, with Cybele, his relationship, if it could be called that, intensified. He would come in exhausted from a practice session with Perry or a workout with Bodyssia, and she waited, drawing him toward her even when his body told him he was tired, hungry, or uninterested. What strange threads she spun to tow him so willfully behind her remained ambiguous to him.

His life with her lacked conversation. She rarely spoke. Sometimes, he would describe his rehearsals or performances, his interactions with the rest of the crew. She would smile as she listened, encouraging his one-sided dialog; when he grew tired of speaking, a gentle silence filled the room. Leaving her became difficult, but he couldn't convince her to accompany him to the dining car, or outside to see whatever town they were performing in. More and more, he stayed in his room. He would have missed one performance if Perry hadn't banged on the door loud enough to rouse him from Cybele's side.

After one show, he had been drinking with the acrobats in the dining car, when something, a scent perhaps, or a musical tone, reminded him of Cybele. He had rushed back to his room, where he found her sitting at his desk, starring into the cloud of windows.

She remained motionless, not acknowledging him until he plunged his face into her thick black hair.

Later, he dreamt that cold, amorphous beings wedged him into a locker in the storage car. Particles of blinking light bored into his retinas. Blinded, he shut his eyes and turned away. When he opened them, he stood naked and cold before a tree, the trunk of which was so large it would have taken the whole circus crew to join hands and encircle. The tree radiated warmth. He sat in front of it, holding his palms close to the hairy bark.

"Into me goes the nurturing heat of the earth," he said, then repeated again and again.

~

He awoke whimpering and clutched Cybele's breasts. Using the edge of the bed for support, he stood. Cybele remained asleep. Where had she come from? He felt as though he had emerged from delirium. He dressed and headed toward the dining car; the hall lights dimmed as he walked. Gold's door opened.

"Hey guy," Gold said, punching Lewis lightly on the shoulder. "You on your way to grab some supper? I'll join you." Gold pulled a small blue ball from his pocket and bounced it with a backspin so that as they moved forward it waited for them.

Lewis reached into his pocket to touch Cybele's warm black figurine.

They ordered food and sat down, Gold leaned toward Lewis and spoke, keeping his voice low. "Hey, I'm glad I ran into you. I really need someone to talk to right now."

Gold's face looked different—his expression—his former smirk had softened, approaching tenderness. When had this change occurred? Lewis felt he was looking at Gold for the first time.

"Leonora has finally seen the wisdom of falling for me wholeheartedly, as I had dreamed she would." He tossed the ball into the air, caught it on its descent, and shoved it into his shirt pocket. "Of course being a father has an appeal to me. It's an opportunity to project my acquired skill and knowledge into a deserving recipient. I can mold a character after my own to ensure a more lasting legacy. The only negative aspect is..."

He lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced around the room. "This is difficult to admit, but...Leonora...we've never had sex. Not ever." He pantomimed juggling, but, his concentration off, dropped one of the imaginary objects. "We were saving it. She says she hasn't done it with anyone else since joining the circus, so it has to be mine. She wouldn't lie, that's not her style."

So Leonora was pregnant. Was he supposed to be confessor now? Okay then, he would give him a biology lesson. "You know you don't necessarily need to have had sex," Lewis said.

Gold pressed his palm to Lewis's mouth. "Not so loud," he said.

Lewis pushed Gold's hand away. "Fine." He lowered his voice. "I'm just saying, if you've ejaculated near her vagina and the sperm found a way to swim in, well—"

"I've never blasted without cranking," Gold said, so loud Lewis flinched.

A flush crawled up Gold's neck and covered his cheeks, and Lewis thought Gold's face might explode.

Gold continued, his voice low again. "That's not the way I do things."

"Sorry. You brought it up. I was just trying to help. It's nothing you can't find in a biology textbook."

The redness faded from Gold's face. He put his rubber ball in the middle of the table, touching it with both thumbs. He stared at it for a moment before speaking again. "My life is defined by my command of these objects. I will not lose control. What is this force tearing at me?"

Lewis decided he needed to pull away from Cybele to find time for himself. When he was with her he lost track of everything but her. It was stifling. He had even given up his speculations—research—into the nature of the train.

Gold clapped his hands. "I've got it—there'll be a vacant room because of Desmonica and János. Either his or hers, right? Unless one of the other acrobats has taken it. The four of them could be spread over four rooms since they've all got women again. But Linusz and Cirill always share." He jumped up. "Thanks guy, I'm going to go find out right now."

Lewis took a few bites of the meat and grain mixture Cinteotl had brought. Yes, he needed a break of some sort. Cybele fulfilled more desires than he had known existed, but she left him empty. Leonora—her pregnancy obviously Cybele's machination. His too, in a way. It was as though the intensity of his life with Cybele impregnated the crew. Who would be next?

The four acrobats and their female companions, including a very pregnant Desmonica, entered the dining car.

"Drink," János said, and Lewis accepted a shot glass offered by Cirill. Thoughts of Cybele tugged at him, a walnut-sized knot lodged deep in his stomach. He resisted, vowing not to go back to his room for many hours. Listing the possibilities, he decided he would: rehearse with Perry, watch a movie, eat again, and then, depending on whether anything else came up and if he felt like it, go to her.

He knocked on what he thought was Perry's door, but Cybele opened it; he had somehow returned to his own room. Following her, he soon found himself in bed and fell into unconsciousness with the impression he was melting into her flesh.

Chapter 27: Dictates of the Locale

"Lewis! You're going to be late." Bodyssia's bellow and heavy footsteps faded down the hall. Why was he standing naked in his doorway?

"Hey, neat costume," Brisbane said.

Jenkins passed, towing a trunk on a dolly. "Don't forget your overnight bag," he said. Lewis moved back inside and closed the door.

"Guess I need to get into my costume," he said to Cybele, but she wasn't there.

~

The train had stopped behind a concrete structure with a high, curving roof. The door at the back of the building opened automatically with a sucking swish as he neared it. The acrobats were in the ring; he had missed the opening promenade.

"Dillon's sprung for a hotel," Gold said through a flowing web of multicolored balls. He dropped one of the balls, but caught it with his toe and kicked it back into the flow.

After final promenade, everyone changed backstage, leaving their costumes in a storage room. A brassy-voiced woman wearing a yellow raincoat took them along a curving hall to an escalator, then up to a vast room with a floor of green-veined marble.

"Look at this great space," Dawn said. Her voice echoed off the stone floor. "Race you!"

She cartwheeled across the floor, followed by two of the acrobats. Desmonica let go of János's hand and pointed after them.

"No, tonight my beautiful body is tired," János said. "I will walk along beside you."

Standing at the elevators, Lewis felt detached from the group, from their good-natured jostling and laughter. Voices around him, but not including him. He could join Perry and Jenkins. He had never talked much to Jenkins. Only in passing. Regarding Jenkins—what did he know? Did his position give him access to things? Obvious Dillon couldn't run the train alone. Maybe Jenkins would tell Lewis something important. Jenkins and Perry spent time together—could he trust Perry to relay information? Not useful information. Not after that rot about orbiting spheres. The elevator doors opened and he got on.

His room was on the twenty-third floor. Linusz, Cirill, and the Chala women were down the hall; everyone else was scattered throughout the hotel. Lewis felt drunk from the amount of space, enough room for a king-size bed, table and chairs, dresser, small sofa. He wondered whether Cybele would appear. Solitary sleep would be a welcome thing. He curled up in the middle of the bed and closed his eyes, but too many thoughts and images danced through. He flopped onto his right side. Who among the circus crew knew? Then onto his back. Who noticed that their destinations existed off the maps of their lives? Maybe Perry had discovered the truth. Something happened—the clouded windows...destinations. And over onto his left side, unable to find a comfortable position, a magic pose that would eliminate his endlessly repeating thoughts.

Frustrated, he dressed and went downstairs to look for the hotel's bar. The only other patrons were sitting at a corner table; Lewis sat on a barstool and ordered a beer. He was surprised no one else from the crew were there. Could everyone but him sleep? Someone approached the bar, but he didn't look to see who.

"Well met, William, how passes the night?"

Lewis recognized the brassy voice of the raincoat woman, their hotel guide.

"You there, one of the traveling players, are you not?" the guide asked. She took the stool beside his. "I found much to enjoy in your showing."

"Thanks." Her voice jarred him. He hadn't come to the bar to talk, but as a representative of the circus he supposed he needed to be friendly.

"I am called Abigail," she said. Up close, he could see that her yellow jacket wasn't for rain protection. It had more the look of a lab coat, made from a supple material with a dull sheen. "What part did you play? I did not spy you during."

"That was me on the mechanical horse, with the armor and the sword. In the helmet you can't see my face."

"The horse—you must bless your fortune, even if you are not the one."

The one? Now even the people he met outside the circus talked like Dillon. "I love riding the horse," he said. "But it's not what you think it; this kind of thing is all about illusion, like in a magic show."

"Well, it shines with splendor regardless."

Dillon would be proud of how he had diffused her interest. The way she looked at him though, she knew something about the horse, and he needed to find out what. He would keep her here, talking.

"I must return to my toil. Good fortune to meet you." She swiveled her stool around and slid off. "Be virtuous," she said, and left.

~

In the morning a band of light crossed the floor. Lewis had left the curtains open to allow the sun to enter freely. How he missed the sun, so distant when the clouds covered the train windows. He should ask Perry about the clouds. No doubt something to do with the spaces between the orbiting spheres. He wanted to believe Perry's theory. He needed to believe something. Considering everything he had seen so far. And he liked Perry.

He sat up. Before the sun woke him, he had been dreaming, something...now fading, the horse...Cybele. In the shower he remembered: another flying dream. This time he sat on the horse, with Cybele behind him, her hands clasped over his stomach. She told him a story of a man who left home in search of his lost love. Was he that man? He had never been satisfied, not in all the places he had lived. Now he was ready. He could stop moving, help raise their children. Everyone was having children, first Desmonica and János, Gold and Leonora...why not he and Cybele? Could Cybele have children, or just induce them in others?

Some of the crew were in the breakfast room, a cavernous space designed to look like a farmhouse kitchen, with long, rough-hewn tables and benches, and cast-iron implements hanging everywhere. A painting of George Washington hung in the center of the main wall. When he sat down, he found that the tables and benches were all colored plastic, not wood at all.

"Some swell place," Gold said. "No meat. No juice."

"You don't think of nothin' but your damn stomach," Leonora said, but she smiled.

Gold touched her still-flat belly. "I'm thinking of yours dearie, and what's inside it."

Lewis again recalled his dream. He wanted this, the innate joy of giving life and watching it grow.

Barca walked into the dining room toward them. The hostess stopped him and pointed to a section on the far side of the room. Barca pulled himself taller, as he had done when meeting Lewis. The hostess stepped back, then Barca relaxed and walked to the other section. Lewis looked at his companions, but no one else had noticed.

The others left; Lewis sat, eating little. Barca had sat down with a family in the other section and was gesturing with his hands, as though telling a story. Barca's companions, like Barca, were dark-skinned

Perry entered. He pointed toward Lewis, and the hostess waved him over.

"You see Barca over there?" Lewis said. "He came in, and they wouldn't let him sit with us."

"We have to follow the dictates of the locale," Perry said.

~

Everything possessed multiple sides, multiple viewpoints. Lewis knew that, knew especially how that applied to their particular situation as visitors. It bothered him, this separatism, but he didn't know what to do. What if he had left the circus in a place like this? Maybe he would go to a library, see if he could figure out where things diverged. But what was the use, other than intellectual pursuit? He wasn't planning to stay and try to change things here.

This city they were in, where was it? He had never asked Dillon where they were when they stopped. The force that moved them also numbed them to their surroundings—that must be what kept the other circus people from questioning things.

He was special though, he noticed things from the start, things the others didn't.

From his hotel room window he could see a wide river, and across it, clusters of ruined buildings. The hotel appeared to be close to the water. He decided to walk out to the sunlight and explore the town.

But outside the hotel wasn't outside. A translucent roof, about four stories above him, stretched across a concourse to a building opposite. The hotel must open into a giant shopping mall. He would have to walk through the mall until he found an exit.

He wandered down the concourse, stopping to look into store windows. Maybe he would buy something for Cybele, a nightgown. At a bookstore he stopped and looked for Oblong Henry titles. Sitting on a bench outside the bookstore, he watched passersby. A number of men and women wore yellow smocks similar to Abigail's, so many that he began to think of it as a uniform. Non-smocked wore more varied outfits, shirts with high collars, colorful jackets, skirts. He saw a mix of racial types, including dark-skinned. None of the dark-skinned people wore the yellow coats.

~

A blond-haired woman wearing a smock passed. Her face...Martha? Without thinking, he rose and followed. She went into a kitchen implements store. When they were together, Martha had never cooked. He paused outside. If this Martha didn't know him—did that prove Perry's theory? He entered the store, walked to where Martha stood at a rack of cast-iron pots.

"These look great," he said, fingering the handle of a stewpot. "Could make a great paprika chicken in this." One of his Martha's favorite foods.

She walked away without acknowledging his comment. Cold—just like his Martha. But not his Martha. If his Martha saw him now, after Are No, after leaving...she wouldn't have walked off.

How could he ever leave the circus? Anywhere he went, he would risk meeting himself. But people had left. Dillon must be able to tell when a sphere was similar enough to one's origin, similar enough to allow someone to leave. Maybe when they entered a sphere with a counterpart, they took over the life of their counterpart. The whole concept was so preposterous...multiple worlds, multiple versions of people? The knowledge could drive a person mad. The others, at least, were spared from the threat of madness. Their ignorance kept them sane.

Was Dillon insane?

Lewis spun around, bumping into a pregnant woman, and hurried out of the store. Farther along, the concourse opened into a vast space filled with green, an indoor forest with a domed roof high above, as large as the domed stadium built in the city where he grew up. He pondered the distant roof. The space was like a stadium, encircled by balconies instead of seats. Furniture dotted the balconies: chairs, benches, tables. An "outdoor" café stood at the edge of the woods, beside a bed filled with red, white, and blue flowers. A path led into the woods, with a plaque marking the entrance: "Let peace, descending from her native heaven, bid her olives spring amidst the joyful nations; and plenty, in league with commerce, scatter blessings from her copious hand!"

Once beneath the spread of branches, Lewis forgot about the distant roof. The woods looked so natural, leaves, rocks, scattered trunks of fallen trees. Had the roof been built over existing woodland, or had the woods been planted later? If the latter, a good deal of time had elapsed.

A man and woman holding hands passed from the opposite direction. Both wore the yellow smocks. They smiled and nodded to him. A chipmunk darted across a fallen tree.

The path split, marked by another inscription, "Here, where the hand of violence shed the blood of the innocent..." He chose the left and soon came to a grassy area at least a hundred yards wide. Several dozen people moved through the meadow, walking dogs, throwing balls. Others lay on blankets beside picnic baskets.

He wanted to ask someone why this domed park existed, why life here appeared to be centered indoors, but as Perry said, they had to follow the dictates of the locale. Questions would draw unwanted attention. Passing a trio of jugglers, two women and a man, he wondered what Gold would say about this group's skill level. Probably sneer. He climbed onto a rocky outcropping for a better view of the park, and there was Gold, approaching the other jugglers. Gold pulled out three balls, yellow, green, and blue, and began to juggle.

Two people stopped to watch, then a few more. Some wore the smocks, others didn't. The people scattered around the meadow were grouped by smocked and smockless. He wished he knew more about the social structure here. The smocks gave everyone an appearance of same-ness, making it hard to distinguish individual features. He saw one smocked man talking to a couple of non-smockers. One of the non-smocked was small, about Perry's size, and wore a dark-colored round hat with a narrow brim; the other man was about the same height as the smocked man, but heavier, with dark hair and a full beard.

The two non-smocked watched the jugglers, nodding at something the smocked man said. They appeared to be paying closest attention to Gold. Lewis looked away from the men, and spotted Dawn and Leonora walking toward the jugglers from the far side of the meadow. He didn't feel like talking to any circus people, so he slid down the backside of the rock and returned to the hotel.

~

Later, Lewis woke from a nap and took the elevator down to the second floor, where the hotel guidebook showed a cafe. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat in a plush armchair. The performance would be happening soon, but he still had no desire to see his companions. He put his coffee cup down next to a fashion magazine—the cover showed a dark-haired woman with a midriff-length smock laced together over her otherwise bare breasts. He hadn't seen anything like that in his walk around the mall and park. In his sphere, fashion magazines didn't match the way real people looked either. The dim light made reading the magazine difficult, but he flipped through the pages, looking at pictures. All the models wore the smocks, though, like the cover photo, the cuts varied. Apparently they were adaptable to the dictates of fashion.

Spheres. Had he accepted that explanation? Martha was here, but not his Martha. That much was obvious. Bubbles and spheres—this city, mall-town, wherever it was, existed under a bubble. Artificial like the train, no breezes, no rain, no sun. But the train at least was his. This place and its ways, alien and unfriendly. After their performance, he would return to his room on the train to spend the night with Cybele. Though her pull was less insistent here, he felt incomplete without her.

A man entered the café. Lewis recognized him, one of the unsmocked who had been watching the jugglers, the small one with the hat. Odd coincidence that he would show up at the hotel. The man moved to the counter to order. He must be staying at the hotel too. It wasn't that large a town.

The smockless waitress approached to refill Lewis's cup, but he shook his head. Time to prepare for the show.

Chapter 28: Further Adventures under the Mall Town

Aside from the late arrival of the acrobats, the performance flowed smoothly, and when the crew gathered afterwards, Dillon announced that he was taking them to dinner. Everyone removed their costumes backstage like the previous night, then returned to their rooms to clean up. Showered and changed, Lewis sat on a lobby couch near the elevators. Abigail walked by; she waved but didn't stop. He still needed to see what else she knew, but perhaps there would be a chance later, before he returned to the train, to Cybele.

The elevator doors opened and Miss Linda emerged. She glanced around the lobby, spotting Lewis. "I've made a pledge to be sociable," she said.

A smudge of whiteface makeup showed on one cheek and on the front of her maroon sweatshirt. He had become so accustomed to her clown face it was odd to see her without it. Her cheekbones were sharper than he remembered. She remained near him but looked away, toward the hotel's reception area. The elevator doors opened again, discharging more of their group, and she moved behind the couch.

Desmonica flopped down beside Lewis. "I'm a tired momma," she said. "It's got to be a boy in there. János Junior—how does that sound?"

When everyone had arrived, Dillon led them across the vast lobby to the "Colonial Steakhouse."

The interior was similar to the breakfast restaurant, same type of tables, same George Washington reproduction on the wall. The hostess, a cheerful, red-haired woman in a frilly skirt, who talked to their group as if they were school children, seated them in the center of the restaurant, where several tables had been pushed together to accommodate their party. A balcony with smaller tables overlooked the room. Everyone was there but Barca, apparently not allowed to join them even for a private function.

Lewis sat beside Perry, and Miss Linda beside him. Cinteotl sat across the table, between Bodyssia and Brisbane. Lewis had never seen Cinteotl outside his kitchen.

Dillon cleared his throat and stood. "My friends. Now, I know toasts are usually proclaimed after the meal, but I felt we should conduct them first tonight, rather than subjoin." He raised his glass. "I want to say that I have never had with me a more dynamic group than the one present at this table. To us."

"To us," everyone said, and they drank.

Next, Dillon toasted the mothers-to-be, then Brisbane: "Garson says he is coming along nicely."

Everyone yelled: "Brisbane!" Bodyssia got up and lifted him into the air. He grasped his hands over his head and gave a whooping cheer.

"And so, to dinner," Dillon said. He sat down, and one of the acrobats began a song in his language; the other three joined. Though Lewis couldn't understand the words, the melody and sound of their voices thrilled him. Someone tapped a rhythm on the table, another hummed along, and soon all were humming and tapping with foot or hand.

When the song ended, a movement in the balcony caught Lewis's attention. The red-haired hostess unhooked a swing that had been clipped to the railing. She maneuvered herself onto the flat seat and began to sway back and forth above them. The waiters delivered the first course, a crunchy seaweed salad. A few people, including Dillon, looked up occasionally from their food to watch the swinging woman.

Lewis whispered to Perry: "I didn't see any Oblong Henry in the bookstore here."

"Didn't expect to," Perry said. "Things here—"

"Why do we stay? It's not fair to Barca—he can't even be with us at the banquet." The red-haired woman returned to the swing carrying an acoustic guitar.

"We can't leave until the show has run it course. That's our way, and Barca understands."

"Did you ever hear about Granite and Butterfly?" Bodyssia asked Lewis. "Butterfly would stand on the bottom end of a teeterboard. Then Granite would jump down on the high end to pop her into the air. Wings would sprout from her backpack, and she would glide around singing."

Jenkins handed Perry a bottle of wine and asked him something. Perry turned away from Lewis and tilted his mouth close to Jenkins's ear.

The woman strummed her guitar and sang. Her voice rose and fell with her swinging, making it difficult to hear. Lewis caught occasional lyrics, something about Butch, a playground bully, and in another, a cowboy named Ramsey. The songs mixed with the surrounding conversations—Gold and Desmonica offering baby names, two acrobats arguing about netball scoring, Bodyssia describing the hotel's exercise equipment to anyone listening. The courses kept coming, a purple flower with wide, thick petals sautéed in butter, steamed greens with long, hollow stalks, breaded and fried things that resembled soft-shelled crab but appeared to be made from vegetable protein.

Was he thinking Cybele's name or did someone just say it aloud? A waiter refilled his wine glass; Lewis looked at it suspiciously. How many glasses had he drunk?

"You of course know the basic mythological background," Jenkins said.

"Of course," Perry said.

"There are conflicts over which is the older of the two versions. I opt for the Tale of Renewal, though I suppose I made the choice more from its artistic merits than logic. And because our own horse reminds me of it."

"Yes, it does. And sometimes I wonder—"

Two of the acrobats shouted across the table at each other, making Lewis miss the rest of Perry's statement.

"The act of valor, and the passage across the parched landscape," Jenkins said. "I've always had a penchant for acts of valor. Though of course their historical origins are always less grandiose than the myth. But the idea of one chosen man on the magical horse braving harsh elements to bring the land back to fruitfulness has a romantic appeal."

"Except his reward is castration and abandonment."

Jenkins laughed, slapping the table. That was the most animated Lewis had ever seen him.

"No meaningful story has a happy ending," Jenkins said.

Their conversation turned to the subject of horses, the flesh-and-blood variety. Lewis wished he could have heard their whole exchange. He felt someone rubbing his shoulders and looked up.

"Clowns relieve tension, it's my job," Miss Linda said.

Had he looked tense? "Feels great," he said and closed his eyes, wondering whose job was to relieve the clown's tension.

Desert finally came, with coffee and after-dinner drinks. Dillon stood and raised his glass. "And now, we bid farewell to this meal. Matinee tomorrow—please attempt to acquire sufficient sleep." He drained his glass and turned to go.

Miss Linda whispered in Lewis's ear: "I've got to go too," and fled the room.

"Wow, I've never seen her move so fast," Gold said.

Jenkins and Perry left; the rest stayed to finish the remaining wine. The woman on the swing still played her guitar, now fingerpicking a sad-sounding instrumental, but the crowd in the restaurant had thinned; Lewis planned to do the same.

"We're going back to my room to play some Whassis," Dawn said. "You want to join us?"

"No thanks. I think I'll go to bed. I'm pretty done in."

She smiled and blew him a kiss. These circus people with their false dramatic flair—at one time a kiss from Dawn would have thrilled him. Now, nothing. He walked out with them, said goodnight when the elevator reached his floor.

He stuffed his clothes into his bag and went back to the lobby, where he asked the smockless woman at the check-in for Abigail, then sat on the couch, nervously rehearsing what he would say. When she arrived, he found himself speaking with confidence, telling her that he needed to return to the train, requesting that she arrange access. Though why would he question his abilities? Of course she would help him. He rode the horse. And she, whatever hierarchy the smocks signified, merely worked in a hotel.

She told him to go back to where the crew had met before the performance, describing a nearby door that opened to the loading dock. She would call to have the night security guard let him through.

He found the double-door that opened to the loading ramp where he had entered the first night. It would be so nice to lay down beside Cybele, lose himself in her limonene scented skin. She...But no, what he really wanted was to stare at a blue sky. Long ago he had noticed that if you concentrated enough, the blue began to change form, to flow in and out of the spectrum, a living thing of blue. Damn this mall-town, Cybele, and the circus. Give him a shack in the hills and he would be happy. He recalled the first time during his tenure with the circus that he had gotten off the train—Bellmouth Bay, or something like that—and his joy at being outside. He was meant to be a man of the trees and fields.

Where was that security guard? This city, any city, and especially the train, could never be his home. His circus friends though, he would miss them. Dawn, with her voice like tinkling high notes on a piano, Gold's arrogance, Perry. But goodbye was still far away.

A man came down the hall and told Lewis to follow him through the double-doors. Lewis picked up his bag. The man looked familiar, but the smocks made everyone look alike.

"We need to wait here a minute," the man said.

Lewis recognized him from the park, the one he had seen watching the jugglers and talking to the two smockless men. The door behind them opened, but before Lewis could turn around, a weight struck the back of his head.

~

Something—the passage of the train, Cybele's selection of him as myth-fulfillment consort—had elevated his awareness in such a way that he...felt. Not a physical sense, but a subconscious awareness of everything around him. Whereas the other performers withdrew on an inward-seeking course, he grew into a role far beyond what his mundane origins would have indicated. Though the understanding came to him in a rush, as he fell the four or five feet from the loading dock, he knew that in a sense it had always been with him, locked up and unusable for conducting his life. And his rootless life was but a symptom of this buried awareness. In psychological terms, he was hidden from himself.

What course then, for this newly self-aware person? He hit the pavement and blackness replaced his speculations.

~

Lewis lay in the dark. His shirt clung to his skin, damp, sticky, stiffening. Pain unraveled his right side, and the bare concrete floor pushed against his bones. He touched the back of his head: a bump, tender but it didn't feel bloody. Someone had hit him? When he tried to sit up, the pain in his side made him cry out. He became aware of loud, ragged breathing, somewhere near. His left hand touched a wall; he pushed himself against it and sat up, pulling his knees close as protection. His right leg hurt to bend.

He strained to locate the source of the breathing and laughed, a dry gasping chuckle. The ragged breathing was his own.

"So what the hell happened," he said aloud. He heard a rustle, barely audible over the sound of his heartbeat. This time it couldn't be him.

"Is that Lewis?" a voice from far away asked. Who here could know his name? Again the voice. "It must be you. I can recognize your scent."

But he didn't smell, did he? Not like Dawn when she finished her elephant rehearsals. The voice reminded him of someone, its hesitancy, the way the phrases turned down, like gasps. He had known so many people in his life. It could be anyone.

"Are you hurt? Lewis?"

Yes, he knew that voice, or at least one similar.

"They got me after the dinner. Running back to my room. They were in the elevator. I don't like riding elevators with other people, but I needed to get back to my room so, no choice, and they grabbed me, took me down and down. They said they'd let me go after they got what they wanted."

"Miss Linda?" Yes, her voice, speaking faster, but hers. He crawled toward her.

Later, but how much later he couldn't know, he woke with his head in her lap. His body jerked, and he sat partway up. Firm hands against his shoulders pushed him back down.

"Stay still," she said. "You passed out. You need to rest." He tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

"They gave me a little water," she said. She pressed a bottle against his lips and tilted it up; he swallowed a mouthful, then another. "That's enough for now." She pulled the bottle away.

He closed his eyes. Something touched his face, a soft, stroking. Miss Linda's fingers, strong fingers, they calmed him. What of their predicament? Who then, to lead the troops to victory? Shapes flowed in and out. Was the ceiling always this close? He opened the rear door of Martha's car and got out. His car was parked beside it. Martha leaned over and listed things she wanted him to buy her. Her mother sat beside her on the front seat. Was it his Martha or the smocked Martha?

"I was just having the oddest dream," he said to Miss Linda. She brought the bottle back to his lips and gave him another swallow. "Thanks." He reached up to touch her with his unhurt arm, found her shoulder with his fingers.

"Maybe they're all in on it," he said. His arm was too heavy to keep where it was. He let it flop onto his chest. They would be missed at the matinee, but no one would be able to find them. What did these people want? It had to be the mechanical horse. Abigail had sent him down to meet the alleged security guard. She knew Lewis was the rider and had alerted the gang. They had probably taken Miss Linda first because they had the opportunity, but he was the real target. Cybele would have to rescue them. No one else had the power.

"I think I would go mad, here in the dark alone," Miss Linda said. "I haven't even tried to find a door. Sat where they left me, then they brought you in. I'm going to get up now and feel around. I need to rest your head on something."

"Help me take my shirt off." He tried to raise his arms, but they were too heavy.

"No, you need to stay warm. Use mine." He felt the bottom of her sweatshirt slide up behind him. She held him by his shoulders and replaced her lap with the folded shirt.

The sounds of her movement blended with the rushing in his ears. Was the room over a subterranean stream? Everything moved. He lay in the middle of a footbridge suspended over a deep gorge. The bridge swayed; he was afraid to stand. Far below, water crashed over rocks. Spray misted the air. He could make out a rainbow where the sun struck the spray. A cry sounded. Had someone fallen into the gorge?

"They left my bag!" A glow appeared, revealing Miss Linda squatting on the floor with a canvas shoulder bag. Her white bra reflected the flashlight's glow. She pointed the light toward him. "I keep a small flashlight in my bag," she said.

"I can sit up against the wall now," he said. "You should put your shirt back on."

"It's okay. Tee-shirt in my bag, and a small can of lycopodium too. We might be able to use it to get out of here."

"Lycopody...?"

"Clown fire. Powder. Expose it to air and it reacts, explodes, then the air puts it out." She held the light in her mouth and rummaged through the bag.

He sat up, using the wall as a backrest. The movement made him dizzy. "They want the horse," he said.

Miss Linda handed him the water bottle. "Finish it," she said. "I've got another in my bag."

How did she carry so much in that bag? He swallowed the rest of the water. Clowns always did the least-expected things. They were good to have around, more useful than Dawn would have been, for instance.

"The horse," he said. A drop of water ran down his chin and it seemed to take him a long time to raise his sleeve to wipe it off. "It's special. Haven't you noticed how people are always trying to get it? The woman at the hotel asked me about it, and the man who brought me down here—saw him hanging around with some others, watching our group. They must want to trade us for it."

"The lycopodium has a quick-release. We'll have to close our eyes. They won't expect anything. It'll blind them, for a little while anyway."

"Shine your light all the way around," he said.

In a tiny closet at the far end, several wire hangers dangled from a rod and a tin mop bucket lay upended below them.

"Those hangers—I'll try to wrap a couple together to hit them with."

She brought the hangers. This was silly. What was he going to do, slap their captors with a piece of wire? He bent the hook away from where it wrapped around the other end. Surprise would help. Their lack of panic impressed him, especially hers. She was such a timid thing. Not that he had ever been exposed to something like this, but he rode the horse. He was expected to be able to handle any situation. He had acted against Horton's giant henchman, hadn't he? His bruised shoulder throbbed and his fingers couldn't seem to unwrap the wire

"This is better," Miss Linda said.

She pushed on the rod where the hangers had been. One end came free of its mount, then the other.

"It's metal," she said, and swung it like a baseball bat.

"Help me up. I need to see if I can walk."

She put down the rod and took his hands. He tried to keep most of his weight on his good leg, but the pain made him groan. Once he was standing, dizziness shook him; he leaned against the wall until it passed, then took a few limping steps around the room. Miss Linda stayed close, ready to catch him.

"It's getting better. I'm going to walk around a bit, sit, then get up again. I don't want it to get too stiff."

"Quiet," Miss Linda said, her voice a hiss. She leaned toward his ear and whispered. "I heard something out there."

She handed him the rod. Outside, a light must have snapped on; its glow framed their door.

"Wait behind the door," she said. "I need to make my bag look like your body. When they...now, I hear them." She slid to the floor and hunched forward. The door opened toward him.

"What do you want with us?" Miss Linda's voice quivered.

He knew that tone. Now was not the time—he wished he could see around the door. One of their captors muttered something. Lewis heard at least two people moving into the room.

Miss Linda cried out, louder: "Don't hurt me! I haven't done anything."

He could see someone's shoulder through the crack between the jamb and door's edge. It looked like the shorter of the two who worked for the smocked one.

"Calm thyself. We bear victuals." One of them pushed the door back; it stopped just short of Lewis's nose

"Keep it closed, Squire, others may overhear."

Miss Linda began to moan, a tearing sound that erupted from deep in her throat. What could he do? She was useless. He would have to attack the men on his own. One of them shut the door most of the way, leaving it cracked an inch or so, allowing a band of light to penetrate. They stood a few feet away from him, holding bowls but no weapon he could see. Their attention remained on Miss Linda, whose moans grew louder and more intense. They sounded like "eyes eyes eyes..."

It hurt him to see her suffering. She hunched forward, shaking and moaning, "eyes eyes." He would have to do something soon, while her cries distracted—that was what...she threw herself into a backflip and pulled the release on her lycopodium. He shut his eyes before the flash went off. He reopened them and swung the rod at the men, hitting one. Both yelled, a panicky sound, dazed as they were by the flash and fire. Lewis struck the closest on the back of his head, knocking him to the floor. Miss Linda picked up the metal bucket and swung it down on the top of the shorter man's head. He fell. Lewis hit each again and stood over them, panting. His injured leg buckled, but Miss Linda caught him.

"You're beautiful," he said, gasping.

Miss Linda pulled the door open, illuminating the room. "Sit for a minute," she said, and helped him down to the upended bucket. She went through the men's pockets. "Take this."

She handed him a pistol and slipped another one into her bag. He cradled it in both hands. The barrel felt cold against his skin. The gun weighed a pound or so, with a curved, plastic-wood grip and a flintlock hammer. He peered more closely and tried to pull it back with his thumb. Not a real flintlock—a piece of flint set in place, but the actual firing mechanism appeared to be internal.

One of the men groaned.

"We need to do something with them," Lewis said.

"My knotted scarves." She reached into her bag and pulled out a scarf. And pulled. And pulled. Lewis couldn't help laughing at the growing pile of multicolored scarves.

"What's funny?"

He pointed to her feet.

"Oh. Clown things, you know?" She glanced at the men. "Hold their hands. I'll tie."

They trussed the two and gagged them. Miss Linda sighed and sat on the floor, leaving the bucket for him. "Let's eat the food they brought before we get out of here. We need nourishment. We have to stay calm." She handed him a plastic container.

Sitting brought back the pain in his hip and shoulder, a deep throb he had forgotten during the excitement of the scuffle. He tried to concentrate on the pain, a natural rhythm of his body. It flowed in and out, and he moved with it, slow train, a roller coaster traveling up and down low hills and shallow valleys. His knuckles cramped from gripping the safety bar. His companion laughed as they swung down into the next trough. Who was she? He couldn't make out her face in the moonlight. Odd that the carnival had such poor lighting. Her laugh reminded him of someone. Not Martha, not Miss Linda, nor any of the circus women.

They climbed a steeper grade. Unafraid, she raised her hands in the air as they rushed downward. They fell and fell; he felt cut-off from his body, his mind floating separate. He began to panic—what if his body fell so far his mind lost it forever? Thick darkness held him, kept him from rejoining his body. They leveled off and coasted over a flat surface. Trees obscured the view on both sides; they rolled through a green tunnel. He couldn't see what lay ahead. The trees disappeared and he cried out. They were hurtling toward a giant door that appeared to grow as they drew closer. Its hinges were as tall as a person. He couldn't stop looking at them. The interlocking metal mesmerized him. But just before the lead car struck, he threw himself out, onto the concrete floor.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up at Miss Linda's concerned face, shiny in the glow from the hall light. She slipped her sweatshirt into her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"We have to go," she said.

They walked out into a nondescript hallway and turned right. Lewis's leg hurt but he managed a limping walk. "This place must be deserted," he said. "All that noise would have brought someone," he said. "Or it's late. I wish I knew how long we'd been in there. Felt like days but couldn't have been that long. They were just bringing us our first meal."

They passed a few locked doors on both sides. After fifty yards or so the hall ended. They turned around. Miss Linda shivered when they reached their former prison. Lewis peered inside; the men remained where they had left them. A few yards on they found a narrow staircase that connected to a floor above them. They emerged at the beginning of a wider corridor.

"Only one way to go this time," she said.

"If we see people let's not say anything," he said. "I don't trust anyone around here. Let's wait till we get to someplace recognizable." All the doors along the hall were painted white. Lewis tried a few, all were locked. The doors were spaced twenty or thirty yards apart—he wondered what lay behind them. He found himself counting steps between them, but forced himself to stop. Were they above or below ground? He preferred to think above. The corridor kept going, no turns, no unlocked doors. At least his leg wasn't hurting as much. A muffled thumping seemed to be coming through the walls, but he attributed it to his nerves.

They walked on, and the sameness numbed him. They walked on, silent, staring ahead, pausing to try each door. The thumping grew louder. Rushing blood, nothing more; his imagination created too many variables. All these doors, all these white walls and doors. Like being on the train, on and on through the diminishing tunnel. He was tempted to scrape the walls with the barrel of the gun as he walked, or...

"Wait, I've got an idea," he said. He stopped, took out the odd-looking gun and pushed a button that he hoped was a safety catch, then pointed the gun at a doorknob. "Hope this thing works."

He turned his face away and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore a hole through the middle of the knob. He shot once more. The impact of the second round swung the door inward a few inches. Echoes of the shot faded, and the thumping, louder now, had been joined by a combination of clank and screech.

Miss Linda pushed the door open with her toe. They peered into the room.

Pipes filled the space, metal pipes wider than both of them, reaching from floor to distant ceiling like a mad industrialist's reconstruction of a forest. The pipes hissed, clanged, and thumped, a freakish symphony of despair. With all the pipes, determining the room's extent was impossible. It appeared endless.

"This is unbearable," he said.

"It's better than the hall," she said. "We'll have to go through and hope there's a door on the other side that leads somewhere."

No apparent path showed. Besides the forest of pipes reaching to the distant ceiling, horizontal pipes like fallen giants ran along the floor at seemingly random intervals. If they had to climb over each to pass through...

"Way up there," Miss Linda said, pointing to a catwalk near the ceiling. He leaned his ear close to her mouth to hear over the surrounding din. "It must be the way through, but how do we get there?"

"This stuff has to be serviced. There'll be ways to get around. Let's start walking."

The noise of the pipes made talking a strain; they continued without speaking. When they reached the nearest horizontal pipe, they found pegs to climb it, and once on top, its surface proved level enough for walking. The pipe's vibrations beneath his feet reminded him of the train, its never-changing hum. Thoughts of the train calmed him. He would be back there soon, back to his room and routine, back to Cybele's soft body.

They soon came to a place where an intersecting pipe-lane crossed theirs. A platform connected the two systems. Lewis turned right on this new path, and Miss Linda followed. Many steps farther, their pipe arched over another. They halted at the top, looking around them at a view no different than that from the door where they had entered the room. Lewis's leg ached. They sat for a time. Miss Linda closed her eyes. He watched her, wondering what lay behind her nervous face.

"I still don't understand why you go through with it," he said. His voice felt hoarse from having to talk over the infernal sounds that surrounded them. "You don't really seem to enjoy it."

She gave him a funny look.

"Your clowning, I mean. Why—?"

"We'll keep going this way," she said.

The pipe-scape gradually changed. A network of smaller pipes made from a dark material flared out beneath them. Every few yards, metal boxes rose from the floor to a height near their own.

"I had a husband," Miss Linda said, her voice difficult to hear over the surrounding clangor. "A good man, kind and gentle. It wasn't easy for us. For me. I've never been comfortable around people. He said he could see my true nature, and I learned to trust him. He was a clown. He loved it, loved the joy he gave to others. When he..." She stopped talking and looked at Lewis. "These are things I never discuss," she said.

"You can trust me," Lewis said. "I won't repeat anything." He touched her arm. "And we'll get out of this place soon."

She pulled her lips into a near smile and squeezed his hand. "When Lord Junius, my husband, died, I had to carry on for him. I went to the clown academy. They wouldn't have admitted me if not for his legacy. I felt awkward there, so out of place it terrified me, but part of me began to enjoy it. When I'm in make-up I'm anonymous. When I'm anonymous I can do anything."

Ahead, a metal bar extended upward, a ladder leading to the catwalk. "Might as well try it," he said. "Maybe it'll be quieter up there."

The warmth of the metal surprised him; its surface had the texture of fine-grit sandpaper, not so rough that it bothered his hands, but enough to make gripping easy, though about halfway up he wished he had stayed below. His right shoulder throbbed, and numbness spread through the arm. From below, the catwalk hadn't looked as far. He stopped and hugged the ladder with his left arm, letting his right dangle.

"You have to let your legs do the work," Miss Linda said. "I learned that kind of thing at the academy—push with your legs, guide with your hands."

He closed his eyes for a moment, forced himself to stop thinking of his position, partway up a ladder to the unknown. He pushed up one rung, then another, all the time thinking of the train, thinking of Cybele's spice-scented skin. Her belly waited to comfort his head. What would Cinteotl prepare on their return? A victory feast, a welcome home. He believed in the concept of hope, the vastness and complexity of being. When he left Martha, when he deserted the world he had inhabited pre-circus, he had left nothing of himself—this he comprehended now, with a finality that shocked him. A person always leaves pieces behind, but this time, this one time, he had transposed his completeness to a new life.

Gasping, he pulled himself onto the catwalk and crawled a few feet to give Miss Linda room, then flopped onto his back. The ceiling—so much closer now—hovered over him, wavering like the distant sea. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the ceiling had solidified. Miss Linda lay with her head near his feet. The catwalk was about a foot wider than his body, with a cable railing and cables anchoring it to the ceiling. It was darker up here, a kind of twilight effect that made him sleepy. He sat up and touched Miss Linda's greasy hair.

"You need a bath," he said.

She rolled over and looked at him, smiling. He had rarely seen her smile, and he liked her smile, her even teeth, the way the lines formed around her eyes. She cocked her head, pointing her ear away. "Do you hear something?"

Over the clank and clash, which had receded with the distance, he did hear something, a keening, low but unmistakably that of a person, somewhere ahead.

The catwalk swayed as he stood, a gentle roll. He reached a hand to the rail. Miss Linda got up and did the same. As he walked he became accustomed to the movement of the walkway. The keening came and went, as though blown in different directions by the odd acoustics of the huge room.

"I see someone," Miss Linda said.

Lewis strained to see through the diffuse light. Ahead was a shape, indistinct, but he could hear its keening more clearly. They drew closer, and the shape became a woman sitting on the catwalk, hunched forward hugging her knees to her chest. Her cries tore out of her throat, sounding something like "ce-cee ce-cee ce-cee..."

They stopped a few feet from the woman. She faced in their direction, but took no apparent notice of them. She had dark hair and angular cheekbones—a starved, hollow look—and was dressed as if for an elegant party, clothing similar to what Lewis had seen in the fashion magazine—clinging, long-sleeved, gauzy yellow smock-top over a black bra, black skirt.

Miss Linda moved forward. "Can we help you?"

The woman continued her cry, "ce-cee, ce-cee..."

Lewis reached for her shoulder, but stopped, afraid to touch her and break whatever hold the words had on the woman. She turned toward them; he thought her beautiful in a tragic way.

Words rushed out, a plaintive torrent, her voice high and child-like. "I'm a good person, am I not a good person? Please tell me I'm a good person. I'm not a bad person. He brings me orange juice, as if that were enough. I'm a good person. I have to be a good person. I was too much for him, that's all. That doesn't make me a bad person. I'm not a bad person, I'm not...I'm not...I'm not..." She went on, her voice growing louder and louder, tearing out of her throat. She began rocking back and forth, the catwalk swaying with the force of her movement.

Miss Linda took Lewis's hand and guided him past the woman. "There's nothing we can do for her," she said. "The souls of the damned, in torment lie, strewn about the sands, their cries, gull flights, tear the sky."

"What's that?" Her words made his spine tingle.

"From de Selby's Retreat to Memphis. Haven't read it in years. It fits her."

At an intersection with another catwalk, Miss Linda turned left. "The other way leads back where we came in," she said.

"I know, but we're way above that floor." He remained at the intersection. "Let's stop for a second."

She kept going. "I have to get out of here. Have to have to have to."

She sounded edgy, verging on panic. Must have been seeing that woman. He started after her. The groupings of pipes below them became more scattered. A mound of scrap metal rose several yards. The light grew dimmer. With fewer pipes, the diminished noise jarred him. Miss Linda was still about twenty yards ahead. He hurried after her along the swaying surface. When he drew close he touched her shoulder.

"What," she said, in a flat voice. She increased her pace.

"This isn't the way. Look around. Listen. We're going away from things."

She ignored him. His bruised leg ached from walking so fast. He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. She gripped his right arm and pushed; he felt a twinge and before he could react, she had twisted his arm around behind his back and mashed him against the catwalk railing.

"Nobody touches me," she said into his ear.

"Stop it." The cable railing dug into his chest, making it hard to speak. "Sorry. Stop. Okay?" The catwalk swayed. He looked down at a wet splotch, the sheen of oily water. "I just wanted—"

She pulled his head back by his hair, so that their eyes were inches apart. He controlled his urge to fight back, not that there was much he would be able to do.

"Please. Miss Linda. We have to go the other way."

"No one touches me." She released his hair.

"I won't touch you. We'll get out by going the other way. That's all. Please." His throat hurt. He had been shouting. The arm she had twisted hung numb at his side. Fragmentary thoughts flowed: his broken body lying far below, her face rimmed with greenish light, the two of them, naked, making love near the stricken woman, her cries fueling their passion.

"I'm...where? Lewis...it's you. I didn't mean..." She let her hands fall away from his shoulders, then lifted his useless right arm and began massaging it. "I hurt you, I'm sorry." She fell silent, and they stood beside each other; he leaned against the railing while she worked life back into his muscles.

"It's okay," he said. "This place, that crazy woman...we'll be out of here soon."

They held each other, silent in the vast room's twilight. Again, he thought of their making love. It embarrassed him. How many of the circus women could he have sex with? No more, none now but Cybele. She had arranged his trysts to bind him; now there was no need for others. But she wasn't here. Just Miss Linda, and now he felt her lips on his injured arm, which tingled as circulation returned, tingled also from her touch.

He looked at her face; their gaze met. The directness, her total concentration of emotion made him uncomfortable. He couldn't live up to the weight of her wishes. And it wasn't him anyway. All emanated from Cybele—her power hung over him like a transparent cloud, making him appear mysterious, intriguing to others. Miss Linda took a step back and lifted her shirt, cross-armed, over her head. In their closet prison he hadn't noticed the leanness of her body, the texture of her ribs and taut belly. He started to lift his own shirt, his right arm still clumsy and sore.

"Wait, I'll help," she said. After taking off his shirt she unbuttoned his pants, then her own. She folded their clothing, making a neat pile in the middle of the catwalk and stood, naked, in front of him, showing none of her usual shyness. Her breasts were small, with large nipples, appearing dark red in the watery light. He brushed her waist with his fingertips and smiled. She reached for his face and kissed him. When he slid his hands up her ribs to her breasts she started shaking, rapid tremors rising from hips to shoulders, but she kept kissing him, his lips, his neck.

"It's been, it's been..." she said with her lips beside his ear, her voice low. "Not since Lord, since my husband, not since..." She covered his mouth with hers and lowered herself to the catwalk, pulling him along. "Lie on your back so you don't have to hold yourself up."

Her weight on him was nothing; she continued to shake as he stroked her body, the shakes growing more rapid as she neared climax. Then they lay a while, joined, drifting in and out of sleep. He thought he heard something far off, water flowing or the murmur of speech, or a breeze lifting evergreen branches. The pine-covered hillside stretched up behind his shack. The river lay in front. He had situated the shack thus, loving the sound the water made as it ran along its banks, while the hills kept the afternoon sun's heat from his garden. Peas, carrots, potatoes, cabbages: all grew well in this rich soil. It had taken much work to build the shack and plant his crops, but now he luxuriated in his bounty, the fertility of his fields. Above him a crow called. What carrion did it seek here? But he liked crows, their sleek dark feathers.

He turned to show Miss Linda his garden, then woke up, her breath warm on his neck. For a moment he forgot where he was and everything they had been through, their captors, this endless journey. He and Miss Linda...this wasn't supposed to happen, wasn't in Cybele's plan, not here, out of range of her influence.

Miss Linda sat up and reached for her clothes. She smiled at him, and warmth spread from her face, comforting him.

"You should smile more," Lewis said. "You're a clown. You make other people happy—it's time you had some happiness too."

They dressed and resumed their trek, this time in the other direction. He walked behind her, thinking about what they might do once they returned to the train. Maybe they would leave the circus. She wasn't really made for this sort of thing and neither was he. He wanted to do something with his hands, build things.

"What happened back there," she said, pointing with her chin. "We have to work together in the circus, but I don't want to be involved with anyone right now, maybe never. I would prefer there be no problems from...it's not you at all, but that's how I feel."

Chapter 29: Precautions Must Be Taken

How long did they travel the vast, pipe-filled room? Steps flowed, one into another, the air became less oily, and they left behind the clanking pipes. Eventually, the catwalk ended at a door, the door led into another corridor, some stairs, and one flight up they found a service elevator that took them to the mall adjacent their hotel. They walked into the hotel lobby.

Dawn, sitting on a couch, saw them and cried out. She ran to hug them. She said Jenkins had found Lewis's bag that morning, and the crew had been searching all day; they had performed the matinee, then scattered again to keep searching.

She hurried Lewis and Miss Linda down to the loading dock, where they found Dillon.

"The horse?" Lewis asked.

"Assuming the abduction was connected to your role as rider, I held it out of the show." Dillon said.

Dillon ushered them back to the train; they sat in the dining car, waiting for everyone to return from the search. Cinteotl brought bowls of a clear, aromatic broth, which he said would strengthen and restore.

János and Desmonica were the first to come in. They hugged Lewis and Miss Linda. Others joined them. Bodyssia lifted Lewis from his seat and raised him over her head, proclaiming her desire to bash the heads of those responsible. Once everyone had returned, Dillon slipped out, and soon came the now-familiar lurch and clouding of the windows.

No one showed any desire to leave the dining car and, tired as he was, Lewis didn't want to spoil the party, so he stayed, drinking whatever was put in front of him and detailing their captivity and escape. Wrapped in viscous air, the faces of the people surrounding him took on shifting qualities, as though unsure of their own appearance. The voices felt distant, and he thought he might be back in the pipe room, or worse, might have never left it, might now be lying, injured, somewhere in that nightmare, not back on the train at all, safe among friends. Through the haze of his fatigue he heard an unfamiliar voice and recognized the red-haired woman from the trapeze in the Colonial Steakhouse. She had apparently been brought in to replace Leonora.

He tried to say something pleasant; his words had to force themselves from his exhausted throat. She said something about it being time to set out in life. She had a high, girlish voice, like Dawn's. He wondered whether Dillon had given her his warning about not being able to guarantee return to the exact place she boarded. Now, knowing exactly what Dillon had meant, would he still have made the same choice?

"Have to go to bed," he said to Dawn. Too tired to speak, he raised a hand in farewell.

His injured knee had stiffened from his long period of sitting, and the corridor grew, keeping him from reaching the haven of his bed. Something about the train seemed different, something obvious yet difficult to place, like the arrangement of paintings on a wall changing after years of being in the same position. He opened his door and found himself standing in front of a naked Lullaby.

"Hey, now you shouldn't be in here," she said, her voice calm, as though nothing unusual was happening. Why had she decided to enter his room and strip? He stared at the six-pointed star tattooed around her navel. The design drew his eye, sharp angles and smooth skin. "I'm expecting József back any minute."

He glanced at the tapestry on one wall and the trapeze swing bolted to the ceiling. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought this was my room." She must think he was an idiot. "I'm totally exhausted...must...don't know...miscounted number of cars?"

But when he turned to leave, she touched his arm. "Maybe you could come back some other time, okay?"

He trudged back to the dining car, then counted cars back toward the caboose. An extra car had appeared between the acrobats' car and the one housing Bodyssia and the other women. Lullaby's room now occupied the position relative to the dining car that had previously been his. He opened his door and peered in; relief filled him when he saw his belongings, his bag, found on the loading dock where he had dropped it, his etching, the fishing lure, and...the scent of rosemary.

The plant now occupied a tan pot larger than a mop bucket, covered with colorful shapes that suggested a complicated scene. He flopped onto the bed and stared at the dusky green plant. Its branches reached toward the ceiling. Cybele must have repotted it for him, so generous, such a warm and giving person. He lowered his head and slept. When he awoke, he lay on his side with Cybele sleeping beside him, her back against his chest. His left arm rested on her belly. He breathed the sweet smell of her neck and felt an erection forming. His penis tingled where it touched her skin. He rolled her onto her stomach and entered from behind, reaching orgasm after a few thrusts, then dozed, molded to her body.

~

Flowers bloomed in wave after wave of translucent blue. The crystalline nature of the field mesmerized him, its long, spiraling form, the way it defined his sight. Once, the field had been quite different, the site of industry and death. Now everything bloomed in vibrant, pulsing light. The sweetness in the air made him giddy. He laughed loud, with his arms spread to embrace the sky, holding tight to the feeling of enchantment. Distant figures moved. He waited for them to draw near, to share this field, the moment of joy engendered here. He couldn't make out who or what they were, even as they came closer; he strained to see them, squinting in the glare from the setting sun.

"You have come to this place unprepared," a male voice said.

"Yes, precautions must be taken," a female voice said.

The female voice occupied a body sheathed in cinnamon, and the male wore white wrapped around his slim thighs.

"What must I do?" Lewis asked.

The cinnamon-robed woman turned to stare at the last fingers of sun peeking over the hills. After it sank from sight, they gripped Lewis's bare shoulders, and from their touch a warm current flowed.

Lewis felt comforted, satisfied that, although answers would not come today, knowledge and understanding were near.

~

Lewis kissed the back of Cybele's neck and sensed the beginning of another erection. But this time he ignored it. While showering he wondered what her level of awareness had been. This mode of...what was it?...sex...lovemaking—it disturbed him. Not that he felt responsible. Although she had apparently slept throughout, she dictated his actions.

In the dining car he met Dawn and the red-haired woman from the mall-town. He accepted a bowl of yellow-white mush from Cinteotl and joined them, easing himself back into the life of the circus.

The mush tasted vaguely of pork and cinnamon, making him recall the cinnamon woman and her androgynous male companion. What precautions must he take? The dream was a warning, he thought, something to do with Cybele and the horse.

Desmonica and Lullaby came in from the gym. Their hair was wet, and they wore bathing suits, towels slung over their shoulders. Desmonica looked enormous, her belly wide and full. Lullaby winked at him.

The redhead was talking, something about shooting at pineapples laid out on trestles. "I don't know if you can shoot a gun from the back of an elephant. It might rampage through the crowd."

Lewis ate another spoonful of mush. This was his life now, and he relished the feeling of acceptance, being able to sit and discuss circus acts as casually as he had once planned press releases announcing a new environmental impact statement. His life had changed so much since the fire at Are No's, he had traveled miles, distances immeasurable by normal means.

The gymnasium door opened again, this time emitting Bodyssia, who rumbled a greeting to Dawn. Lewis turned to say hello. When she saw him, her expression changed, smile sliding into the tight-lipped grimace he knew from watching her strain at the weight machines. She leaned over, grabbed his collar with both hands, and lifted him. Before he could say anything, she shook him. He floated, overstuffed puppet-boy. What precautions would have helped here? She spoke, her voice fuzzy over the roar rising from the cataracts. A fall from this height could kill a person, tumbling hundreds of feet to unforgiving rock.

"Aren't you satisfied?"

She lifted him higher and jogged him. His feet dangled over the table. The stitching around the armholes of his shirt bit into his underarms. She shook him again and the arm seams split; the shirt pulled up over his face. She flung him. He slammed into a soft wall and flopped face down. Warm and dark and coarse, pillow, comfort of pillow, of air and light, but no comfort here, surrounded by uncontrolled nature, hurricane winds and a sadistic first mate, punishing him for his secret life.

His head lifted, pulled up by hair, and someone tore the burlap sack from his face.

"Thinks he can fuck all of us," the first mate said.

Not a sack, his shirt, and not the first mate, Bodyssia, face inches from his, teeth prepared to rip at his throat.

"Don't bother," Dawn said. "Not worth the mess."

Bodyssia's giant fingers withdrew, and his face met the cushion of a booth seat. He lay wheezing. Voices rose from somewhere. Behind him, names repeated, Miss Linda, Lullaby...

He pushed the cushion, raising himself to a seated position. Bodyssia stood beside the next table, where Dawn and the new redhead sat.

"Haven't you noticed there's a new car on the train?" he said. "Am I the only one around here who notices things?"

"You toyed with us," Dawn said. She got up, followed by the redhead, and they walked with Bodyssia toward the gym.

Cinteotl appeared at Lewis's table with a shot glass containing a clear liquid.

"Drink it all down, one gulp. Just what you need."

The liquor smelled of honey, nutmeg, and something woody. He followed Cinteotl's directions; it burned his throat, and warmth advanced, spreading in a slow-moving wave to his fingertips.

"Has to be about sex," he said. "They must have decided it was okay for them to do it with me, but not for me to do it with anyone else." Dawn wouldn't stay mad at him long, but Bodyssia...not good with her out to hurt him. He had acted badly—you don't break up a relationship in the group. He needed to give up this childish idea of him and Lullaby, resign himself...no, what was he thinking? It had been an accident. And all he did was walk in, then leave.

The acrobats entered the dining car from the residential side. First Bodyssia, now the four of them? He would have to brazen it out, somehow, despite the queasiness in his stomach. They sat at one of the booths and Cinteotl brought them a bottle of something yellowish.

Lewis stood, unbending his leg, his mall-town injury aggravated by Bodyssia, and limped over to them. He was still holding his glass. János reached to fill it. He looked at the acrobat's faces for a sign that they were unhappy with him, but everything appeared normal. "I was wondering, did some of you move to new rooms?"

"Yes, my friend," János said. "József now has privacy quarters and Cirill has related himself to József's previous location. We are all now in comfort."

"Okay. So after the party, I opened the door that I thought was mine, and there was Lullaby, naked. I'm sorry if I offended her, but it really was a mistake."

József gripped Lewis's arm. "She has a beautiful body, yes?"

"Yes, a very beautiful body." He paused, remembering the word the acrobats had used after a fight, and raised his glass. "No recrudescence." He drank down the yellow liquor.

"No recrudescence," the acrobats chanted, and János refilled their glasses.

~

Cybele waited on Lewis's bed. "I'm so glad you're here," he said. He threw himself down and rested his head on her shoulder. Everything spun around his eyes, proud ribbons in yellows and greens. "I've been beaten, ridiculed, accused..." He felt his words had to travel great distances from his brain to his lips and out into the world. How did the acrobats drink like that and still function? He told her about Bodyssia, about Miss Linda in the pipe room. Talking to her, so close, breathing her scent, he became aroused.

"You are castrated then," she said.

She placed a hand on his crotch and his erection vanished.

"Sleep now."

Chapter 30: Desolation and Disharmony

When he awoke the train had stopped, and a sickly orange light permeated the room. Cybele lay on her back, eyes closed. He brushed her forehead with a fingertip, tracing intricate designs across her skin, which appeared to glow in the odd light. She slept on, and he lay with his face an inch from hers and dozed. Such a joy, to lie beside her, the truest love he had known. Those others had meant nothing.

But the train had stopped. That meant they would be performing soon. He sat up. He hadn't expected there to be a performance so soon. Cybele stirred, murmuring something. "Are you awake?" he asked. "I have to go see when the show is. I'll be back soon, so don't go anywhere, okay. I want to be able to see you later on."

Lewis paused in the doorway to the dining car; Dawn and Bodyssia sat, eating. Why did he have to see them now, after waking so sweetly beside Cybele? He walked toward the counter, planning to ignore them, but changed his mind and stopped.

"Hi ladies," he said, trying to sound cheerful. They ignored him. "I guess we've got a busy day, huh? Either of you know what time we're supposed to be there?"

"Whenever," Dawn said, tonelessly.

"Okay, thanks."

He turned toward the counter. The twins, desolation and disharmony, haunted him, trashing forever the smooth workings of his circus life.

"Food returns people to harmony; chili pepper cures all ills," Cinteotl said, handing him a plate.

A quiet despair descended, held in check by the food and Cinteotl's kindness. Lewis sat with his back to the women and ate quickly, not wanting to remain long in their proximity.

Gold and Leonora came in. She passed without a glance at him, but Gold waved, keeping his hand low as if to avoid being seen by the others, and continued to the counter to order their food.

If he could only bring Cybele here—that would show them he wasn't someone they could ignore and belittle. These damn performers with their codes and superstitions. Cybele would have to start coming out with him. What reason to hide? She feared nothing.

"Did you hear about the great space Dillon tossed me and Leonora? Two adjoining rooms."

Gold had returned, but Lewis ignored him. Maybe the boor would leave. What was the point of filling the air with reports of his good fortune? Never thought of anyone but himself, never noticed what went on around him.

"Hey guy," Gold said, resting a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "Don't let it get to you. These things happen in our insular world, but everybody comes back together in the end." He glanced behind him. "I have to sit with them...Leonora...you know."

Gold's words, however unexpected and welcome, did little to elevate his mood, and now behind him he heard the explosion of Bodyssia's laughter. Again, he felt apart from the rest, unwanted. He'd go to Perry. Perry wasn't part of Bodyssia's group, no, he was Lewis's friend, partner in performance and in their knowledge of the train. But Perry didn't answer Lewis's knock. Probably with his horse, preparing for the day—Lewis started toward the stable but stopped; he wouldn't go through the dining car again, didn't want to see the happy little clique. Instead, he would return to his room, much better anyway, get back into bed with Cybele.

But his room was empty. He closed the door and turned toward the caboose.

Outside, on the caboose landing, the heat pushed at him, dry and heavy, and the air held an acrid taste. What he could see of the town was little more than a collection of ramshackle lean-tos with tin roofs, and past them, a few larger buildings that looked as though they were made from scraps of wood, metal, and brick. In the dusty street, Dillon conferred with three men wearing straw hats with broad brims and, despite the heat, long-sleeved shirts. Dillon, too, wore long sleeves and a white hat.

Off to Lewis's right Jenkins pulled a cart loaded with duffel bags to a field of dead grass. Something—some gray-brown animal—scuttled under the nearest lean-to. Dillon pointed toward Jenkins, and they walked over to join him. Jenkins and the men began erecting the circus tent.

Lewis had never watched the tent being assembled. It was inflatable, with wall pieces that snapped together before being pumped full. The bleachers were made from sections of a lightweight material. The assembly took little time, and when it was finished Dillon and Jenkins walked toward the caboose.

"...by this evening I suppose," Dillon was saying as he came within hearing. "Word will carry and give us a semblance of an audience." He shook his head as though something in the setup displeased him.

"What is this place?" Lewis asked. "It doesn't look too great."

"Something appears to have altered the balance slightly, and slight alterations can resonate far more than would seem possible," Dillon said. His voice was low, and he looked tired; a film of dust clung to his cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face. "At the show, then," he said.

Lewis wandered down the hall, stopping at his door, but he didn't turn the knob. Letting go of the cold metal, he kept walking, continuing on to the lounge car where he took out the encyclopedia containing the entry on Cybele.

Cybele controls fertility, sure...Attis symbolizes immortality...castrated himself out of devotion to her...violets springing from blood...death and resurrection. Lewis felt short of breath. The pregnancies—Cybele's doing, transmitted through him, through his sex with Bodyssia and Dawn, and now, this castration. It said she was revered for her beauty and feared for her jealousy, but she couldn't be jealous. She had instigated everything. Maybe his thing with Miss Linda had been outside her influence, but so what? That was no reason. But he wasn't...he hadn't done that. Maybe symbolically—on this train there was no one he could sleep with, no one but her, and she wouldn't cut him off from her, she couldn't. She still needed him for something. No, this was simply a way of binding him closer. Thinking it through calmed him. She cared for him, of that he was certain. He had been alone so long, but now her embrace housed and comforted him.

~

Lewis stood in costume outside the circus tent, beneath a sky as rusty as the metal roofs in the town. The wind swirled dust. Grit coated everything. He had tied a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, but his eyes stung. Bodyssia trudged by him into the tent, giving a perfunctory glare. Something—the weather, the town, Bodyssia—had made him edgy. He wanted this performance to pass quickly. Through the haze, he spotted Dawn and the redhead walking toward him, both holding handkerchiefs over their mouths. He followed them into the tent.

The walls diminished the noise of the wind, and they removed the cloths from their faces. The tent's interior was set up as a semicircular amphitheater, with the bleachers forming a U-shape around the stage. The entrance to the stage was in the open part of the U. Inflatable walls separated the backstage area from the bleachers.

Lewis wiped grit from his lips. "I don't know how many people are going to show up in this kind of weather. I'm sorry we don't have a better place for your debut."

"Is outside always like this?" the redhead asked.

Brisbane yelled to them. "You guys missed a great fight."

Two of the acrobats restrained the other two; Bodyssia stood between the pairs, arms spread to keep them apart.

"They were going after it like you wouldn't believe," Brisbane said. "All because Cirill was wearing József's lucky gold-plated belt buckle."

"Ah, the young are so exuberant over physical contests," Gold said, sighing as if the situation bored him immensely.

"Where's Leonora?" Dawn asked.

"Leonora did not feel up to braving the dust storm. And there's no way of knowing what airborne bacteria might inhabit such an offensive climate. She and the unborn are much safer on the train."

Dillon signaled for the crew to assemble. During their opening promenade, Lewis surveyed the crowd. More people than he had expected, a hard-looking, boisterous group, with few children. A boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, abruptly stood and hurled something at Clytemnestra. Several adults in the audience laughed. Lewis saw Dillon stiffen, but he continued walking with his short, even stride. Barca slowed from his position in front of Paladin to allow Clytemnestra and Dawn to reach him; he patted the elephant's leg and spoke to it. Lewis was relieved when they circled back offstage without further mishap.

"Is it always like this?" The new redhead asked. Her hands were shaking.

Dawn put an arm around the redhead's shoulders and spoke softly, encouraging her, but Lewis felt too uncomfortable to respond. He had performed in front of obnoxious crowds before, and Gold had told him that someone had once thrown a bottle that made Leonora fall off her elephant. But these were rare occurrences, individuals in an audience, not, as it appeared here, the collective will. Barca shared Lewis's unease, arguing with Dillon about unacceptable abuse to his elephants.

"At least I've got armor," Lewis said to no one in particular.

Dillon went out to start the show, and Lewis watched from behind the flaps. There was scattered applause when the acrobats finished, but yelling overpowered Miss Linda's poetry. Cheers sounded when Bodyssia's capybarabears tore apart the bird.

"No elephants today," Jenkins said.

Gold went out for his act, after which Lewis and Perry made their entrance. A boom of applause and cheering greeted them.

"Let's make it a good one," Perry whispered as they raised their swords. He trotted his horse out about twenty feet and turned to shout at Lewis: "I am Thaliard of Antioch. And who art thou, mean knight?"

The rest followed as usual until their mock combat. They crashed their swords, and someone yelled: "Six to one for the flap on the shiny horse!"

Slashing and parrying vigorously, they fought, but the crowd jeered. When Lewis slapped away Perry's sword and the jockey yielded, the audience yelled its displeasure at the bloodless ending. He and Perry rushed the rest of the lines. "In this hope I live," Lewis said in closing.

"You better hope you live," a man yelled.

Lewis and Perry left the arena without bowing to the crowd. Dillon waited in the staging area; he told them to stay on their horses. Most of the crew had already left, only Dillon and Barca, with Percival the elephant, remained. Guarded by the Percival, they returned to the train.

"I hate leaving the tent," Dillon said. "But it might not be possible to retrieve it."

Lewis went to the dining car, where everyone had gathered to see what was happening outside.

"Did anything happen to you guys?" Dawn asked Perry.

"Nothing physical," Perry said. "But I'm not used to demands that I hack my friend to pieces."

"And I for one don't like juggling the disgusting slop they threw at me," Gold said.

Several people emerged from the back of the tent. A larger group exited from the front. They converged. The wind had picked up, and great clouds of dust swirled. A large woman advanced a few feet and gestured to the train, then at the others, but first one, then four, then the rest ran for the dubious shelter of the town.

Dillon materialized in the doorway. "As soon as the sun descends, I would like volunteers to help take down the tent."

At nightfall, the entire crew met in the elephant car. They covered their faces with cloths, and when the portal opened they surged forward like soldiers disembarking on a hostile beach. Dillon watched the town while Jenkins showed them how to take apart the tent pieces and expel the air. They began strapping the bleachers and bundled tent pieces onto Clytemnestra and Percival. Paladin remained on the train.

Lewis stayed in costume, feeling safe beneath mail and helmet. Flying dust obscured the town. Dillon emerged, moving quickly toward them.

"They are coming," he said.

Clytemnestra knelt while Dawn supervised its loading. Barca had already taken Percival back to the train.

The dust-wind ebbed, revealing a group from the town, led by the large woman. She yelled and ran at them, waving a heavy staff. Lewis drew his sword, but something struck his shoulder and he lost his grip. With his other hand, he groped for it in the dust. A body flopped near him, its face bloody. The ground shook. Lewis gripped the sword and swung, clumsy in his left hand. A huge sound reverberated. What terrible beast had these people unleashed? Figures fled, and a shape emerged, Paladin, galloping madly as he did in performance; he trampled through the mob. The sound of Lewis's breath and voice came to him; he hadn't realized he was yelling. A hand touched his shoulder.

"Let's go," Bodyssia said. She held a staff of knotted wood, taken from the large woman who had led their attackers.

Dust covered the floor of the elephant car. Miss Linda stood to one side, with a clipboard; she checked Lewis and Bodyssia off the list.

"Just Barca and Paladin," she said.

"Back to the dining car," Dillon said. "Jenkins and I will wait, and secure."

In the dining car, Perry set Gold's broken arm and Cinteotl sewed up a gash in Cirill's thigh (the most serious injuries). Cinteotl slathered everyone's cuts and bruises with a thick, foul-smelling paste.

Everyone cheered Barca's entrance. Miss Linda placed a wreath of vines and flowers over his head. The windows blurred.

Chapter 31: Comfort in the Midst

The tension from their conflict in desolation-town lingered. Cirill and Gold argued, then fought, over use of the lounge; Bodyssia would talk to no one and spent most of her time grumbling at the weight machines. They visited a town composed of barges and houseboats moored in an immense, weed-choked lake, where they performed on a platform built over several barges. The barges reminded Lewis too much of the town where that man had drowned. Their first day, someone went backstage during the closing promenade and stole Gold's juggling knife. The next morning, the redhead refused to leave the train, claiming that evildoers lurked everywhere. At a performance in an amphitheater in the middle of a large, clean, and ordered city, a man sitting in the front row heckled Bodyssia during her act. When he appeared backstage later, she hit him in the face, then picked him up and threw him.

During this period, Lewis was buoyed by the constant presence in his room of Cybele. From her he drew comfort in the midst of increasing chaos. It became more difficult to leave her for performances, and at their conclusion he would rush back to the train, sometimes even reaching it before Miss Linda. He gave up interaction with the rest of the crew. Meals were difficult. With Cybele refusing to go to the dining car with him, he would eat quickly and return. Eventually, he began bringing food back to his room.

~

One evening, while eating at his desk, his stomach lurched. The window cleared, revealing a green meadow with snow-topped mountains beyond.

"There'll be a show soon," he said.

Cybele sat on the floor with her legs crossed and eyes closed. He needed to find Perry to prepare for their act, but instead found himself crawling toward her lap. Someone knocked. Cybele pinched his lips shut, and he stroked her breast to show her that he had no intention of responding to the knock.

Bodyssia's bellow sounded from outside, "Showtime."

Cybele released his lips and he kissed hers. They made love over and over, varying positions each time. Her orgasms grew in intensity, her cries so loud he thought they would bring the entire circus crew to their door. He felt such power he wanted it to continue forever. Their lovemaking brought change, carried a flow of new life into the circus. His passion grew so large that he melted into her, viewed the room from inside her body, saw his surroundings in a milky haze, breathed through her layers of skin, absorbing the limonene scent of her internal organs.

Then for a time they slept. When he awoke, the windows had clouded again.

~

During one of Lewis's visits to the dining car he encountered Dillon hunched over a table, clutching a black, egg-shaped object. Dillon's appearance, pale, with dark smudges under his eyes, startled Lewis.

When Lewis reached the counter, Cinteotl shook his head. "I offered him root tea, I offered him myrrh brandy. Nothing."

Lewis wondered whether Dillon was ill, or suffering from some self-inflicted torpor in which his mind wandered along complex trails leading to private realms. Cinteotl packed Lewis some food. As he walked away, Dillon turned toward him, freezing him with blank, unfocused eyes. Could Dillon see him? He took a step toward Dillon's booth.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Dillon turned back to the dark shape he held. Lewis tried to get a better look at it, but Dillon, as if feeling Lewis's gaze, moved his hands to cover it. Lewis shifted the hot packet of food back and forth in his hands. He had to return to Cybele. Dillon could take care of himself.

"Everything emanates from the audience," Dillon said. His voice was hoarse, far from its normal smooth and mesmerizing quality. "A full and excited house provides power far beyond anything manufactured. But lately...energy of the wrong sort...full of conflict and mistrust." He looked down at his object, addressing his comments to it rather than Lewis. Beneath the object's dark surface, something shimmered, like the figurine Cybele had given him; he slipped a hand into his pocket to test its warm reassurance.

"We live on tracks that move ever forward," Dillon said. "On rails laid from complex principles and variable flow. We are the caretakers of passion and power. So difficult to reverse course...concentrate on good fortune." He raised the object to eye level, then lowered it. "Perhaps our next location will provide...if not...responsibility mine alone."

Cinteotl appeared with a large mug. "Root tea. Drink now." Dillon slipped the object into his lap and lifted the mug. He closed his eyes and drank.

~

Lewis woke from another dream of the soft, vibrating hill. He kept his eyes shut, trying to retain the dream's gentle mood. Cybele lay beside him, and from her radiated, not heat exactly, more an electromagnetism coupled with the subtle, but always present scent of citrus. He moved a hand to her leg, resting his palm on her thigh, and he wondered what it would be like if they were joined, branches of the same tree. He recalled her first visit, when he had imagined himself being absorbed by her. He had no idea then, no idea at all.

Thinking he would shower and go to the dining car, he slid a leg off the bed and tensed his muscles to get up, but before he could move, she pressed a hand to his chest. He relaxed his body. His stomach rumbled, and she slid her hand down to cover the spot. Her touch numbed him and he lay unmoving, staring at the ceiling, which seemed far away and mysterious in the darkened room.

A knocking startled him—someone at the door? But no one knew where he was, not here, lost in a sphere separate from his former companions. He turned his head toward the sound. Everything seemed so far away, the floor, the wall. Hearing Perry's voice call to him, he sat up. As he opened his mouth to respond, he turned to look at Cybele. She smiled, and her smile cut off the words before they could emerge. Perry knocked again, harder, then pushed against the door, but it held fast.

"Have to open the door," Lewis said, his voice hoarse, but instead of getting up he reached for Cybele and, mimicking her, placed a hand on her stomach, palm flat, fingers pointing toward her face. A current, he thought, a circuit undisturbed, from you to me and back again. He lay beside her and closed his eyes.

Days of sunshine fell through the windows of their room and, as though fueled by the light, Cybele grew. She reached his height, then surpassed him, so gradually he didn't notice until she was Bodyssia's size. Soon, she would be too large for the room; her head would butt the ceiling. Lewis sat in the middle of an immense bed, and Cybele lifted him to her breast as a newborn.

"My child, I will nourish you and make you strong," she said, and he cried, clutching her breast with his miniature fingers, filling his mouth with her nipple, drawing forth the vitality he needed.

He awoke with his mouth clamped firmly over one of her nipples. He pulled away and felt a milky sweetness on his lips and in his mouth; he swallowed. The liquid flowed down his throat to settle in his stomach. He lay on his back and stared up at the white ceiling.

Again he awoke with his mouth over a nipple. She stroked his head as though he were a pet, or a child.

Not knowing if he was awake or dreaming, he watched a patch of sunlight move across the room. Particles of dust floated in its path, hovering and spinning. Wishing he were among them, he reached toward the dust, but couldn't grasp the particles. The sunlight made him think of his companions on the train, and he wondered what they might be doing. His mind wandered in a maze of rooms filled with Dawn's chirping voice, Bodyssia grunting as she exercised, Miss Linda reciting a poem, Gold juggling half a dozen red apples, but he couldn't see their faces. Each was a blur with a name, and later, even the names faded.

Trying to picture his companions, he saw only Cybele's breasts and was unable to look away. He put his face between them. Then he was calm.

Again and again, with his lips pressed to one of her nipples, he awoke. She stroked his head. He slept.

Part Five

Chapter 32: Everywhere Green

Sunlight floated into Lewis's room, real sunlight, aglow with expectation. Cybele, a soft anchor beside him, her breath in his ear like wind pushing a sailing ship. Waves slapped the hull, a slow, rhythmic force that relaxed and invigorated him. He had traveled so long in this ship that it felt like the only home he had known, and the crew, his only family. But the captain drove them farther and farther out, past archipelagos covered in green, past jagged volcanic outcroppings that could tear out the hull, toward...Only the captain knew.

Once, Lewis would have questioned everything, demanded to know the captain's plan, but now, he conserved energy for future encounters. Down in his cabin, the winds and reasons seemed far away, with his companion as his only care. She slept on, and her sleeping fortified him. But when the sunlight crossed his eyes, it awakened in him a desire to be away, among flowers, trees, and flowing water. Without looking out the window, without thinking of Cybele, he dressed and hurried to the caboose.

The train stood on a ridge, above a river. No buildings in sight, only the steep slope falling to the water and across, a wave of subtle hills. Everywhere was green, ferns and shrubs and spiny-leafed trees with bare trunks and conical tops, a vivid green, like the first onslaught of spring, fighting its way back from the death of winter. The sweet, warm air intoxicated him. He sat, staring at the water a hundred or so feet below. The sheen of the river drew him. The hillside here was too steep to descend, but there would be time for that later. For now, all that mattered was the sun and surrounding green.

He lay back in the grass and breathed, each breath a celebration. No cloud punctuated the sky, and the blue, wider than an ocean, touched all the distant, unseen worlds. He wanted to roll in the green, absorb the richness of the land into all his cells. Lying on his right side, he stared at the grass in front of his eyes. It was about three inches high, with several fronds extending from a smooth trunk, more like a miniature shrub than a grass, perhaps an annual that had recently sprouted and was just beginning its life cycle. This welcoming space was his, a reward for his trial in the sunless world of the train. Life begins here. All around him, the green echoed his thoughts, as though forming them was a group effort. And it must be true, for he had never felt this alive. It was the green—nowhere else existed green this vibrant. What culture bloomed here, what vigorous confederations inhabited the region? He looked forward to their next performance as he had to no previous one.

But finding out about the performance could wait. He sat up. He had to touch the water.

Farther on, the slope became more gradual, and at the riverside he found some of his companions. They had spread a blanket on a level patch near the water. Ferns and horsetails blanketed the opposite bank, and beyond, a forest of fern-like trees.

Dawn embraced him. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" she asked.

He said he had been ill, bedridden, but had now recovered fully. She told him that they had performed with Desmonica riding the horse, now that the child—a boy—had been born. Lewis sat on the blanket between Dawn and the redhead from the mall-town. Gold dug through a large wicker hamper, spreading paper-wrapped sandwiches out on the blanket. Leonora lay on her side, her shirt pulled up above the mound of her belly. Gold kept glancing at her, as though worried that labor was imminent.

Leonora's size mystified Lewis—it didn't seem as though much time had elapsed since she became pregnant.

The others began eating, but he felt a sudden aversion for the food. After so long without solid food, he would have to be cautious. Dawn opened a plastic container holding strips of raw vegetables, and he reached for a carrot, chewed it slowly.

"Remember when Miss Linda and Barca were engaged?" Dawn asked. Everyone else nodded, even the redhead.

"That must have been before I joined," Lewis said.

"Hey guy, I don't think so," Gold said. "They broke it off right after our last show."

"And she was mad at that man, for sure," the redhead said.

"Barca was even willing to find someone else to be the clown, so she wouldn't have to perform anymore," Dawn said.

When then? Why hadn't she told him? And Barca, surely he knew about what happened...sex in the pipe room—but that made no sense...Barca must have been later. Submerged and timeless with Cybele, life for the rest of the circus rushed by while Lewis slept.

"Maybe this timid business is an act," the redhead said. "My older sister did things like that to get attention. She'd act real sweet around my parents, then we'd go out and she'd get drunk and hang out with sleazy guys. And my parents always thought I was the wild one."

"Families can be a royal pain," Leonora said.

Gold patted her leg. "That's why we're starting our own."

Lewis tried to remember how long he and Cybele had been together, tried to gauge it by using the number of performances as a scale, but everything was murky. He recalled the time, soon after Desmonica announced her pregnancy, that the circus crew had erected the tent and performed at a crowded, outdoor festival with music, food and drink vendors, fencing matches. Lewis had gone out to explore but, missing her, soon returned. He had pulled the bed closer to the window so they could look out at the stars. That was when his dependence on her became complete. He shuddered, engulfed by a sudden hunger for her.

"You're not getting cold, are you?" Dawn asked.

"Just had a chill. It's nothing." Sweat tickled his underarms. At first the sun had been a glory, but now the heat and humidity smothered him. After all his frozen time with Cybele he wasn't used to raw elements.

The redhead called out. "Hey, come look at this." She stood by the water, pointing.

"I ain't moving till I know it's worth it," Leonora said. "It was too hard getting comfortable, and I feel like a whale."

"A most attractive whale, my love," Gold said.

Dawn got up and walked toward the redhead. Thinking he might splash his face, Lewis followed.

"It's gone," the redhead said when they reached her. "Let's stand here a minute and see if it comes back."

"There's nothing here," Dawn said.

"You'll see. Be quiet." The surface rippled, and a flat, fish-like head emerged, followed by a sprawling, ungainly body. It reminded Lewis of a newt, a gigantic, poorly-designed newt. Its reddish body was about two feet in length, with a long tail that had a fringe-like fin. It moved in surges, as though its legs were too weak for support on land.

Shouting sounded from farther up the bank, and the newt-thing slithered back into the water. The acrobats came tramping through the reeds, carrying fishing rods and a tackle box. Desmonica, followed by Lullaby, sat on the blanket; Desmonica rested her baby on her lap.

"This is Jánoska's first picnic," Desmonica said. "I hope he's good."

"He's an angel," Lullaby said.

"Not if he's like his father." Desmonica looked toward the acrobats. "Just kidding, honey," she said.

Lewis looked at baby Jánoska's wrinkled face. He couldn't imagine how he had missed such a momentous occasion as a birth, but no one seemed to have noticed his absence. What else had he missed? Watching the baby, he was engulfed by the same revulsion as from his dream of being suckled.

Kneeling at the river's edge, he splashed his face and hair, letting the water drip down his back. It was cooler than he had expected. He sat on the bank with his back to the baby. The acrobats assembled their reels and selected lures; the Chala women picked reeds, wove them into a basket. The four acrobats spread along the sandy bank. He wondered if they would hook the newt thing. The Chalas built a fire, then one of them picked up a block of porous wood and carved it into a figure, which she placed beside the basket. Lewis leaned forward, staring at the carving. It had Cybele's face.

One of the acrobats, Linusz, cried out. Fishing line whizzed through the water. János rushed to help, grasping the rod while Linusz worked the reel. The others dropped their rods and stood behind them, shouting encouragement. Linusz and János walked backwards, heaving their bodies against the weight of the fish. Its head emerged, then they flopped it onto the shore. It was at least six feet long, with a fat body and an oddly elongated head, which it raised and lowered as though its neck was hinged. Linusz stepped forward and clubbed it on the head, then held it up to show the Chala women.

The Chala women seemed unimpressed with its strange appearance. One of them sliced it open to clean it, then hacked it into steaks; the other threaded poles through the steaks and hung them over the fire.

The acrobats picked up their rods. "I'll catch something bigger than that," János said.

~

Lewis passed his door without entering. He feared that if he did, he would never leave. Unable to participate in the feasting, he had left the shoreline picnic with its stench of roasting fish and made his way back to the train. Emptiness overwhelmed him; everything of his being had been focused on Cybele, and events—childbirth, Miss Linda's engagement with Barca—had elapsed without his knowledge, but what pained him the most, now, was not knowing how to change. At Perry's door he raised his hand to knock, but remembered the time he had mistaken it for his own. The dining car would be safer.

And there, Perry and Dillon shared a booth. Lewis slid into the seat beside Dillon.

"Have you been outside?" he asked. "It's amazing—the air, everything. Robust. I didn't see a town though, no place to perform."

"We will not be performing," Dillon said. He clasped his hands on the table, and stared down at them.

Lewis became aware of Dillon's appearance, pale, more haggard than the time in the dining car when he had talked about...what was it? The energy of conflict and mistrust? Stopping at a place like this should have relieved Dillon's tension. Lewis glanced at Perry, but the jockey's expression revealed nothing.

Cinteotl brought three mugs of root tea. Cinteotl always knew when their needs were the greatest. They sipped tea in silence; after finishing his, Perry spoke.

"If I understand correctly, it's a question of our ability to depart." Perry glanced at Dillon before continuing. "We've encountered something..."

"Suction, you could call it," Dillon said, his voice a whisper, "has affixed us here until the proper combination of events can break us free."

More riddles. "Events, what events?" Lewis asked.

"Nothing that we have the capability of enacting," Perry said.

Lewis looked from one to another. "How can there be nothing...has this ever happened?"

"I must..." Dillon's voice held a frantic edge. He reached past Lewis and gripped the edge of the table. "My quarters...rest."

Lewis moved out of the way.

"I've never seen him so shaken," Perry said after Dillon had left.

"What would get us out of here—what was that about no capability of enacting?"

"It's a folktale actually, but then the whole train is like something from a folktale."

Perry told Lewis a story that he recognized from the conversation between Perry and Jenkins during the mall-town banquet. But this time he knew that he was the one, the rider moving across the parched landscape. Perry didn't know, hadn't made the connections from Cybele to horse to Lewis. Lewis lowered his head to the table and closed his eyes. Perry touched his shoulder.

"It's not such a bad situation in which to find ourselves. Think of our group as colonists, pioneers in a distant land. We already have the next generation underway."

Had this been Cybele's plan, then? Impregnate the women in the circus to prepare the performers for their role as colonists? Well he wouldn't cooperate. No one could force him. She couldn't force him. The door on the far side opened. He hoped it would be Dillon, returning to tell them he had found a way to escape; instead, Barca and Miss Linda walked past holding hands, apparently reunited. Her face bore an expression of serenity he had never expected to see on her, and it soothed his ragged mood.

Chapter 33: Cybele's Land

The idyllic green world gave everyone a chance to break from their routine of rehearsal and performance. Lewis was sure that most of the others had no idea that this was more than a routine gap in their schedule. Some decided to take all their meals to the riverbank. Eventually, the redhead and Dawn began sleeping outside in the field by the train. Perry, seeing their situation as a chance for adventure, would ride off on his horse for days, far along the river and over the hills. The acrobats fished constantly, ranging the terrain with their poles. Barca kept the elephants inside most of the time, to avoid despoiling the area, though he allowed them occasional trips to the river and a nearby growth of tree ferns.

Once, Lewis would have relished this break, would have joined in the excursions, but this was Cybele's land. He wanted nothing from it. Still refusing to return to his room, and her, he slept on the couch in the lounge. In the storage car he found enough clothes that fit him. Aside from Dillon, whom he never saw, the only other person avoiding the outside was Bodyssia, who spent most of her time with her animals and in the gym.

Despite his longer and longer separation from Cybele, he remained averse to eating. Even the thought of food caused nausea, and he subsisted on Cinteotl's root tea and a few raw vegetables. He couldn't stop thinking about the tale Perry had related, couldn't hide from what he saw as his destiny. In the lounge, he searched for books with references to their situation, but found nothing. According to Perry, the Tale of Renewal involved the sacrifice of an individual to save the land, but this land didn't resemble the parched landscape of the story. Here, all was in bloom, alive and active as nothing he had ever seen, more like what one would expect after renewal. Maybe this place had nothing to do with that story. Dillon didn't know what he was talking about. The manager's ineptitude had trapped them here, not some stupid myth.

Nevertheless, he would not rejoin Cybele. Even if she had nothing to do with their situation, she controlled him and he was tired of being controlled. She couldn't keep him in the room. Still, his lingering on the train despite the glories out there—that was her influence. He would leave, explore the green world.

But he waited, and the days passed. Each time he went to the dining car for root tea, he felt her pull, and he feared that if he attempted to walk to the caboose alone, he wouldn't be able to pass his door without succumbing.

Finally, the acrobats provided an opportunity. When they returned from one of their trips to feast on fish curry, he accepted an invitation from János to go back out with him and József. In their company, he could venture safely through the train.

~

Lewis, with János and József, had been walking along the river and up a tributary for most of the morning when they reached the base of a waterfall. János squatted by the water, picking his teeth with a sliver of reed while Lewis and József stared up at the overhanging cliff. Lewis saw no way to reach the top. They would have to try fishing here, at the base. He liked the way the glittering spray from the waterfall filled the air. Leaving the train, at least for the day, was the best thing for him, a further affirmation of his independence.

"We climb there," József said, pointing across the stream to the area beside the falling water, where there was more of a slope.

"The best fishing will be there at the top," János said.

Lewis shook his head. They could climb it. He would wait down here. János walked downstream about twenty yards, away from the spray, and took off his shoes. He and József waded to the other side. Lewis was about to tell them he couldn't make it, but János had already started climbing. Lewis removed his shoes and crossed.

János had hung a rope from his belt; when he reached the top of the cliff, József attached their packs for János to pull up. József started climbing, making the top in little time. Lewis followed, concentrating on using his legs, as Miss Linda had instructed him when they were on the ladder in the pipe-room, but his arms and legs burned before he was halfway up.

He couldn't make it, stupid, so stupid of him to try, to think he could do something the acrobats could do. Sweat dampened his forehead, ran into his eyes; he dipped his face to his shoulder to wipe the moisture from his upper lip. He drew even with a protruding slab of rock, the surface of which looked wide enough to sit on, and was about to stop and rest, when János called down.

"Don't—not steady."

How did he know? Lewis pushed on the outcropping with his left foot, and it toppled, falling with a rumble and slap into the stream below.

"The rest of the way can be climbed less difficultly," János said.

No alternative...concentrate on the rock ahead...climb. When he reached the top, he sprawled near the edge, catching his breath. Despite his exhaustion and the heat, he smiled. The acrobats stood looking at the water as though assessing its worth.

"The other side is likely better," János said, pointing to where the river had undercut the bank beneath a clump of low-growing evergreens. "But I feel not like crossing again so soon. We shall try here for the while, and move if it does not please." János and József assembled rods, reels, lines, and lures. Their assemblage consisted of a gold, propeller-like device with three hooks on one end that they baited with a ball of gooey mash wrapped in a swatch of gauzy fabric.

"You try here," János said. He handed Lewis a rod, walked about twenty feet, and pointed to József. He walked a little farther and stopped.

Lewis wished he had been able to bring his lure, taken from Are No's house so long ago. Deciding to watch the acrobats before trying it, he sat on the extended, claw-shaped root of a tree with scaly bark and small wispy branches high up near the crown. Near his feet, a number of wingless insects with narrow bodies trailed out from a layer of rotting leaves. Beneath the shade of the branches he could relax. The heat wasn't so bad, once you acclimated. It was real anyway, not like the processed air of the train, and this experience—climbing, fishing—was also real. He drew this reality close, wrapping himself in it, throwing off the cloak in which Cybele had trapped him for so long.

The acrobats cast upstream, allowing the bait to drift downstream, then reeled it in and repeated. They continued with no success, alternating between standing on the bank and wading a short distance into the stream. Lewis got up to join them, but after he had made a few casts, János announced that they would switch to the opposite bank.

"Lunch before fishing more," József said after they had crossed the stream.

Lewis wasn't hungry. He sat with his feet dipped into the water while the acrobats ate dried fish and Cinteotl's flatbread. When they finished, they lay with their heads on their packs, talking in their own language. Lewis felt left out and wished he had brought someone else to talk to. But he was enjoying the outside, and the companionship, despite the lack of translation. He lay back and stared at the sky. Could he leave Cybele, yet remain with the circus? What if Dillon was right, and they were trapped here, held fast by some mythical force? Until someone performed this ritual sacrifice to free them. Gold should do it, then they would be rid of the bragging fool. But that wasn't right—he had grown to like Gold, self-absorption and all. If Dillon was correct—and when was he ever incorrect?—the task of freeing them belonged to Lewis. Meanwhile, so pleasant here...breeze...the water...

Someone approached from his right, familiar figures: a slim man with a white cloth wrapped around his waist and a woman sheathed in cinnamon. He could see them more clearly this time. Their smooth cheeks shone with vitality. They looked like twins, brother and sister, slim-hipped and small, their heads coming up to his chest. "His preparations are still incomplete," the woman said.

"But he is beginning to understand." They both reached up to touch Lewis's face, and he smiled at their contact and the warmth it gave him.

~

A flapping in the water woke him. Two fish hovered just below the surface. They resembled catfish, though without whiskers. One of them poked its head above the surface and gulped air.

"Hey, look at this," he said.

"Ugh, no good flavor," József said.

"We have caught them before, and we do not like them," János said. "But now is the time to stand up and resume the fishing." He tossed a rock at the pair. "I do hope there is more to catch here than those things."

Unfortunately, they seemed destined to catch nothing else, and János grew more irritated with each one he hooked and threw back. He flung one behind him into the trees, muttering that it was the third time he had hooked that particular fish. Even Lewis caught one, and would have kept it despite the acrobat's distaste, had József not extracted the hook and heaved it into the trees before Lewis could stop him. Finally, József landed something with lobe-shaped fins that looked as if they could be used as legs.

"These are good fish," he said.

János and József each caught another of the lobe fish, and as the sun tinted the water orange, János stepped back onto the bank. "Shall we spring the night in these distant pastures? Or away to the hut?"

"The hut," József said.

"What hut?" Lewis asked. He handed his rod to József to disassemble.

"Not far," János said. "In the meadow where the river bends around the flat-topped hill."

Lewis looked down at the slope he had ascended along the waterfall. "I don't think I can climb down, especially with it getting dark. Maybe there's another way."

János took out the rope. "Perhaps many ways, but for now, we will lower you and then climb ourselves to the bottom." He wove the rope around Lewis's legs and waist and tied it. The other end he looped around a tree. "You hold onto the rope and walk with feet while we give slack. Very easy. We know many such things."

~

The hut stood maybe fifty yards from the river, on a rise covered with the same shrubby grass Lewis had found near the train. The acrobats had assembled the hut from the trunks of tree ferns, two on either end, lashed in pairs to form Xs. A pole across the top supported two rafts of ferns and mud that served as walls and roof. Reed mats covered the ground. One of the open ends faced the river, and in its entry was a circle of stones containing the remains of a fire.

"The Chalas showed us how to build this," János said. "And when we leave, it will revert to its nature, with no remains of us."

"And they showed us how to cook the fish in fire," József said. He left the hut and returned with a bucket of mud. "We coat the entire with mud and put it in the coals. Isn't this wonderful to know?"

While the fish cooked, Lewis sat outside, looking out at the river. The motionless water fascinated him. Perry, after returning from one of his long rides, had told everyone that they were close to the sea, and when the incoming tide met the river's current, they halted each other's progress for a brief period. In the still water Lewis saw reflections of the moon and stars and the wooded bank opposite. A flux of indeterminate memories attempted to surface, warm hues of contentment, the darkness of strife, but nothing moved outside the realm of his senses, no explanation approached, no guide to lead him from the labyrinth, the dark walls of which rose to infinite heights, merging with the gloom until they became indistinguishable from the surrounding ether.

János announced that the food was ready. Lewis still didn't feel like eating, but when József served him a fish, steaming in its cracked-open mud shell, he felt obligated to try. It proved to be bony and bland. He continued to stare at the river and found himself able to eat more than he had expected. Behind him, János and József argued about who had caught the biggest fish. Lewis ate most of the bone-free pieces and tossed the rest into the water.

He returned to the hut and curled up in the blanket he had brought. This land wouldn't be such a bad place to start a new life: good climate, clean air, companionship. Maybe he could settle with someone, have children. Miss Linda had apparently chosen Barca. Leaving Dawn, the redhead, and Bodyssia. Then there were the other men: Perry, Dillon, Jenkins, Cinteotl, and Brisbane. He flopped onto his side so he could stare out the back of the hut into the night. In addition to the supreme freshness of the air, the stars bore down with greater intensity than at home. Ursa Major rose, its presence comforting after so long in the train. His gaze drifted to the right, and he smiled at the sight of Orion's belt. This was how the ancients had viewed things, before industrialization colored the sky.

After walking the land with the acrobats and witnessing the glorious night sky, he was even more determined not to return to Cybele. Staying with her embraced desire without purpose. But he didn't want to leave the circus. He had to find a way to stay, but without her. The twins he had dreamed about, the Gemini, though male and female instead of both male. He rarely had recurring dreams. They carried a message for him...he had to focus, open himself to their power.

Sitting up, he called out to the acrobats, who had remained by the fire. "I need to go back to the train in the morning, so I won't be fishing with you tomorrow."

Chapter 34: Rider in a Parched Land

Once—he had lived a life oblivious. The divinations of nature passed unseen. Overhead, sky screamed his name, shrubby grass he trod upon whispered. And between, between, he always felt himself between. Martha to Are No to Dillon to Cybele. Flow. Everything in constant motion. Break it down, motion picture frames, and you have frozen moments, but there is no true frozen moment. Cybele held him, if not frozen then petrified, freeze-dried. An end to this, then. And there, the train, coming into view. She...would she be in his room?

Having resolved, he expected his room to be empty, she off on an unnamed journey, but she sat, staring out the window. The afternoon sun filled the room, and her presence, inside despite the glorious weather and landscape, infuriated him. He wouldn't be saddled with someone who didn't appreciate what lay outside. Martha had preferred inside as well. Not him. He floated free. He closed the door behind him. She remained at his desk, her gaze fixed toward outside, but he doubted she saw anything the way he did. And why didn't she turn to greet him? He wasn't to be trifled with.

"I've had it," he said. "Look at this, you, sitting there like...I don't want this anymore. It's not real." Her back, he was talking to her back. He felt his voice fading, resolve drifting. He had to stay angry. "Look at me," he said, but she did not. "Damn you then. I've made my decision and you'll have to live with it." He opened the door, looked at her once more, and slammed it shut between them.

He tried to walk toward the dining car, but every door he passed looked like his. Was he walking in place? He closed his eyes, attempting to conjure the dining car as he had first seen it: Cinteotl, meats hanging, piles of fruit and nuts, and the smells there, too many to comprehend. Cinteotl's power was greater than hers, it would save him. A door in front of him slid open and he didn't need to open his eyes. The scents told him where he was.

Cinteotl offered fish stew, and he ate it. Cinteotl handed him a plate of steamed greens, and he ate them. Bread. Cheese. Everything. And when he finished, he returned to his room, satisfied, confident. No more sleeping on the couch. He would resist her. But moments after entering his room, cramps twisted his body; he ran to the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

Exhausted, limp, defeated, he lay beside her. He wouldn't touch her. She didn't care about him, not really, her plan, always her plan...beautiful and terrible she dominated his life. No longer. He reached back to regain his anger, allowing it to smolder like Are No's fire, a strong slow cleansing burn. But now the bed was an oven, her body like coals. He couldn't sleep, couldn't be so near without touching, but to touch her would defeat him. Sweat dampened his hair, chest, and underarms. Wide flows the river, cold blows the north wind, where the children grow...He kicked the sheet off. Beside him, her pale body gleamed. He reached for the base of her neck, but her skin burned him and he cried out.

He rolled onto the floor, sobbing. He finally slept, clutching the figurine she had given him, but at some point in the night he felt it lifted from his fingers.

When he awoke, he looked up from the floor at a corner of sheet hanging off the edge of the bed and reached for it, idly stroking the fabric with a fingertip. Outside light filled the windows, a reddish haze. The rosemary bush, grown so large it had filled a corner...now shriveled sticks...needles dropped and scattered on the carpet. Finality. He knew she wouldn't return.

~

Lewis sat in the dining car, as empty as his room. Cinteotl's counter drifted in and out of sight. Odd that he had never noticed how much it moved. Was his forehead warm? He couldn't be sick, not so soon after freeing himself. His head though, so heavy. He would rest here, wait for Cinteotl.

"Sitting around when there's work to be done, eh?" Bodyssia's blaring voice shook him. It was easier to look at her with his head resting on the table, putting his eyes in line with her midsection. She wore a tank top cut off above her stomach. She had always been strong, thickly muscled and heavy, but now each abdominal muscle stood out as though etched. A landscape of flesh, mountains and valleys of muscle filled his sight. Her comforting hardness called him; he reached toward her with a hand he couldn't keep from shaking.

The acrobats rushed in, then Perry.

"Something has changed out there," Perry said. "The sun casts an evil red haze, withering, everything withering."

Redness filled the windows. Soon everyone had gathered in the dining car. Lewis heard their anxious comments, but couldn't bring himself to join the discussion. Holding the edge of the tabletop, he pushed himself upright. With slow steps he left the dining car.

Back in his room, he stood at the windows and looked out. The sun appeared sullen now, bulging and low. The temperature in the room remained comfortable, but near the window the heat pushed at him, thick and lifeless. What of the once-inviting green? He felt lost now, unwilling to face the prospect of the relentless sun, but unable to forsake his responsibility. He turned away from the glare. His bathroom had no windows. In there, he could find comfort. For a time. He twisted the shower tap to cold, lowered himself to the tile floor, and sat under the spray.

~

Lewis examined himself in the mirror, admiring his translucent skin and the shape of his protruding ribs. He felt fit and powerful, energized by the shedding of excess flesh. With his body thus prepared for travel, he needed only the means.

He put on his costume, everything: armor, boots, sword, helmet. The pack from the fishing trip still held some dried fish and a change of clothes; he slung it onto his back and left. In the kitchen, he stopped for more food and water. Arriving at Dillon's room, he entered without knocking. Dillon sat on the floor, surrounded by mounds of books. A spiral notebook lay across his lap and wadded sheets dotted the carpet. He looked up toward Lewis, but made no acknowledgment of his presence. Dark patches showed under his eyes and stubble covered his cheeks and chin. Lewis didn't think he had ever seen Dillon unshaven. Had Dillon been here, working in his room, ever since their last meeting in the dining car?

"I need to take the horse out," Lewis said.

Dillon opened the book on top of the nearest stack and flipped the pages, then held it open with one hand and groped the carpet near his feet, to grasp an ornate fountain pen the size of a fat cigar. He squeezed the chrome top with his lips and unscrewed the pen. With a finger marking his place in the book, he scrawled in the notebook.

Lewis had no time for Dillon's games. "The horse, I need it."

"Endless configurations," Dillon said without looking up from his work. "So many probability models, each giving rise to a complicated series of event calculations...hoped to estimate the parameters by the principle of maximum likelihood... always the same...should never have taken this upon us. Here we are, here..." Dillon's voice faded to a hoarse whisper and he slumped over his books. Lewis turned and left.

In the empty storage car, he confronted the walls, defeated by their smooth surfaces. One of them hid the mechanical horse. He would have to find tools, crowbar, pick-axe...but think! What would he do when he found the horse? He didn't want to think. The windowless room gave him sanctuary from the angry sun, but the bare bulb pulsed, its hue intensifying as if fortified by the outside light, but this light he at least had the power to extinguish. He tugged on the pullcord, filling the room with tactile dark, and lay on the dusty floor with his pack for a pillow.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shapes emerged, glowing pinpricks.

Madness, he had been crazy ever since the Are No fire. Joining this circus train ride to nowhere. But the luminous pinpricks drew him. Some in clusters, others scattered, some bright, a few so dim he thought he imagined them, they covered wall and ceiling...looking like. He laughed a sharp ha! Stars. Constellations. There was Pisces, Aquarius, there was... Pegasus. He jumped to his feet and lunged toward the wall. He touched the dots forming the horse. The wall slid open.

He attached his pack and the bag of food to the saddle and led the mechanical horse to the elephant car and out the portal. Before mounting, he put on sunglasses and his helmet. It was already late afternoon. He rode without choosing a direction, and the horse took him to the river. The marshy, reed-filled bank had dried out and the river's flow had lessened. He couldn't believe how quickly the landscape had changed, the former lushness replaced by parched green turning to brown. He continued upstream along the water's edge, loving the feel of the horse under him, better than a real horse and responsive only to him. Despite the dark glasses, the glare from the setting sun made his eyes water and sting. The river curved to his right, and the ground began a gradual rise; not far ahead, the riverbank on his side thrust into abrupt cliffs. Even with the horse's uncanny ability to guide him, he didn't want to risk traveling the terrain at night. Safer to continue in the morning, and besides, he couldn't find Cybele in the dark.

He laughed. Was that what he was doing—looking for Cybele? His laughter grew hysteric, his belly heaved with it, and he kept laughing until he gasped for breath. He needed to stop, get off the horse and rest, but when he pulled up on the reins, nothing happened. He yanked back hard, again and again.

The ground continued to rise, and the horse veered away from the river with a movement so sudden Lewis had to clench the reins to keep his seat. The slope grew steeper. Not possible to dismount now—he would have to hold fast and wait it out. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the horse's neck. The horse lurched up and over a ridge, onto level ground. Below them, far past the river, the sun dipped toward the horizon. The horse took the next slope. Up and up they went. His arms felt numb. Where was Cybele now? Waiting. She knew he couldn't leave her. So close, freedom...gone. He sobbed into the mechanical horse's soft mane. Tired of being manipulated... tired, simply tired. When he returned to the train, he would sleep for a week...feast...one of Cinteotl's birds. The ground leveled.

Lewis sat up in the saddle and tugged the reins. The horse kept moving at a slow trot, but on the level ground he expected its pace to increase. Better, he thought, to drop off here than this hurtling through the dark. If he fell, the horse would stop. It needed a rider to move. Releasing one hand from the reins, he reached behind for the clip holding his pack to the saddle. It resisted his groping fingers; he turned to look and found the clip. While occupied with the strap, he felt the horse leap. He let go of the pack and grabbed for the reins, but the horse landed before he could secure his grip. He sprawled face down in the branches of a dying shrub.

The thump of the mechanical horse's hoofs continued without pause, fading as the distance separating them increased. By the time he sat up to look, the horse had vanished.

His pack had caught on another shrub. The bag of extra food and water remained attached to the saddle. He reached into the pack for his flashlight, slung the pack onto his shoulders, and started in the direction the horse had taken. The terrain ahead appeared to be level enough to travel using the light. His cheeks stung, scraped by the shrub, and his left hip hurt. After about twenty yards he stopped—no point chasing a horse he couldn't catch. He had never seen it move without a rider. Something must have affected its mechanism, the heat maybe. No, not something. He pulled a packet of dried fish from his pack. Everything had been too easy: he accesses the horse, takes it out, and lets it choose the direction. She had planned all, programmed the horse to take him, either to her or far from the train, where no one could find him, his punishment for daring to leave her.

Nothing he could do until daylight. He removed his boots and armor; lying on his back, he looked up at the fingernail moon and emerging stars. Come morning, he would return to the train. Too bad he hadn't thought to check his compass when he left the train, but no matter, the river, would be simple enough to follow it back. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, stars filled the clear sky. Like the night at the acrobats' hut, he had never seen stars so distinct. The size of the sky awed him. He found Orion, followed the line of its belt to Pegasus, and used his compass to fix its position. He would have to mark its movement as the night passed. In the morning he would know his direction.

~

The landscape undulated, flowing in gentle peaks and valleys of varying heights and depths. A bristly tree carpet covered everything, like the stiff fur of some immense animal. The panorama excited him. He had an urge to leap the distances, feeling he could soar over the gulf that separated him from the hills below. The trees still held patches of green but probably wouldn't for long. Though the sunlight was diffuse, its power wasn't. It had been daylight a short time, but Lewis already felt drained from exposure to the red heat.

His position gave him a clear view in all directions. He would need to find a way down, most likely somewhere back along the way he had come. He hated going backward, even a short way—the line he had charted pulled him, but descending here would be too risky.

Sunlight reflected off something ahead. It had to be the mechanical horse. Forgetting caution, he scrambled down the steep hillside. By now the horse would have reached her...hurry then...couldn't be abandoned so easily, she would see. His foot caught on a root, flipping him over. Not now, not this, catch something—he flailed his arms, trying to grab anything that might slow his tumbling slide. He slammed into something that bent forward with the impact but held, and he lay for a time, afraid to move. A spear of branch pushed against his stomach; the armor had kept it from penetrating. Brown needles covered him, shaken loose by his collision with a clump of evergreens. The strap holding his helmet had parted, and it had flown off, somewhere, during his tumble.

He resumed his descent, reaching the bottom without falling again. The river was near, beyond a wall of still-living ferns. Unsheathing his sword, he hacked a path to the water, which flowed shin-high over a stone bed. He undressed and lay immersed, his head pointed upstream. The current tickled his hair, calmed and cooled him, but the sun was a worry. It had reached a point directly overhead. He sat up. The ferns would provide some protection. He tugged his underpants and shirt over his wet body and moved into the shade.

Heat and shadowy half-dreams disturbed his rest. He concentrated on the cold at Are No's house, hoping memories would cool him, and though he tried to summon a dream of the twins, all that came were misshapen images, and the effort of trying to identify them would wake him. After an hour or so of that he sat up. His armor lay piled beside the pack; he would leave it, everything but the sword.

Once across the river, he stopped to pull on his boots and fill his canteen. For protection from the sun, he spread a film of mud over the exposed skin of his face and arms and tied a tee shirt over his head as a bandanna. As he walked up the low bank, he took out the last of his dried fish.

The hills on the this side were lower, eventually leveling into a mossy plain, springy beneath his feet. With no cover, the afternoon sun numbed him. Wouldn't it be comforting to be back on the train, lost in the coolness of the white room? He tried to conjure it around him, shelter in its blank spaces. Breathe, allow the inhale to command the exhale and back again, until breath and steps diverged, each independent. The breath focused him and the steps carried him forward. Dillon had said—Lewis spoke aloud: "We travel on elastic paths of ever-increasing complexity."

He took the cap off his canteen and sipped. If he didn't reach the horse soon he would have to find something edible. Nothing looked promising, all he could see were acres of mossy carpet. He would eat grubs if he could find them, but he had seen nothing but plant life since leaving the train. The sun dipped behind a row of hills; its disappearance cheered him, though a red glow still infested the hilltops. The hills curved around toward the direction he walked. Walking among the hills, that would make a nice change. He had planned to rest when the sun went down and continue later, but the sunset energized him. Into the night he walked.

This once-green place held them, but they could have remained in peace, fishing, exploring, if the climactic change hadn't happened. His fault, his rejection of Cybele. As punishment she had removed the land's fertility, leaving a desolate landscape ruled by an unfriendly sun. If he returned to her, she would set things right. If he could find her...if not...couldn't last much longer out in the sun. This night then, this night. He breathed and walked, movement so steady he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. What need had he for food? The breathing and the walking, nothing else mattered.

The ground sloped upward to meet the hills. Ahead of him, something clattered. He stopped and pulled out his flashlight. Metal reflected in its beam.

"Hey girl, remember me?" He spoke aloud as he would to a horse of flesh. "You've led me along a merry way, haven't you?" The food bag still hung from its strap, but before he could get within a yard of it, the horse shied. "Come on you, I just need my bag." He stepped toward it, but the horse backed away. Stupid, talking to a mechanical horse. Words won't calm it. He didn't want to mount it again. Food, though—he needed something to hook the bag. He reached over his shoulder for the pommel of his sword and leapt forward, swinging the blade out and down. The blade clanged on the horse and caught the strap holding the bag to the saddle. The horse reacted to the sword as though formed from flesh instead of metal. It reared and emitted its harsh, wind-over-an-open-bottle neigh. He stayed close, sliding the sword up inside the strap, and when the horse pulled to his right, the strap parted. The horse moved toward a low ridge and stood near a dark patch of rock.

Lewis retrieved the bag. Tired now, he would wait and eat in the morning. Looking at the night sky, hazy, with no stars visible, he wondered what his companions were doing back at the train. He hoped his actions here, out in the wastes, could help them.

Chapter 35: The Cave

The rising sun woke him. He sat up and looked for the horse, which remained near the darker patch of rock. His sleep had been fitful, laden with imagined sounds, and worries that the horse would trample his prone body. His throat felt as though he had swallowed gravel; he drank from the extra canteen. He had left dried fish and fruit soaking in a plastic dish, and now he ate it, not minding that the fruit had absorbed the fish taste. There was some flatbread too, stale, but he ate it despite his dry throat. He would need the energy today, whatever happened. He laughed, remembering his thoughts of yesterday evening, disdaining food.

Not far ahead, the mossy plain ended at the shrub-covered ridge. Past it rose more hills and beyond, an even higher range. Travel that way would become increasingly difficult. The dark rock behind the horse intrigued him; as he stared at it he realized it was the entrance to a cave. Why not stay in there today and continue after the sun went down? When he finished eating he got up and walked toward the opening, expecting the horse to move away. Instead, it turned to face him, and when he moved to his right, the horse moved as well, keeping its back legs centered with the cave entrance as it turned, blocking him. As though...

She had to be inside.

Fearful of the horse, he had slept in his clothes and boots, so all he needed was to pull on his pack and draw the sword. He waved the blade in a wide circle as he advanced. The horse remained motionless. Closer now, he swung down on the horse's neck; it jerked its head away, but the blade struck near the mane. The horse screamed. Startled, he struck again, clanging metal against metal. He couldn't see any damage, but the sword appeared to cause pain, and when he raised it again the horse charged him.

He fell but kept the sword up and thrust at the horse's belly as it tried to trample him. The blade caught the base of a leg. Something parted in the joint, and the horse flopped onto its side, still screaming. Lewis flung himself out of range of the metal hoofs, but one connected with his chest. He fell, dazed and panting. The horse's flailing legs moved slower and slower, and its cries faded. What had he done? His mount...partner in performance...such a magnificent...How he had longed to get close to it all those times when Desmonica was the rider. Then Dillon made him the rider. Tears formed and seeped down his grit-covered cheeks. The horse's legs stopped moving. There was nothing he could do now but enter the cave and ask Cybele to forgive him.

The opening was about shoulder high, narrow at the top and maybe a body length wide at the bottom. He pulled out his flashlight. The ceiling gradually lowered, and despite the pain of his bruised ribs, he continued, crawling, dragging the sword and pack. His light showed a hole he didn't think wide enough to squeeze through, but beyond it the cave appeared to open up. He thrust the pack into the hole and pushed forward on his stomach with his arms outstretched. He had to angle his shoulders to fit the shape of the crack and push himself along with his feet. Progress was slow, and the pressure against his shoulders scared him. He breathed, letting the breath guide his body.

Once through, he sat and rested, turning off the light to conserve batteries. At least now he would be able to walk upright, for a time anyway. He would see what lay beyond when he got there.

He sipped from his canteen, then rose to continue. The room was about fifteen feet wide. Through a crack in the floor, he could hear the flow of water. He walked along the crack to the far side of the room, where it split into a crawlway to his left and a walking passage on the right.

"Not in the mood to crawl again," he said.

In the right-hand passage, the crack and stream below continued. The walls here were rounded as though from the flow of water, which must have seeped through the rock to form a new path below. In places, the crack widened, and he had to slide his feet along the edges. The passage curved downward to his right, leaving the water. He kept going, walking as he had in the hills and on the plain, and soon the passage opened into a vast space with a high, domed ceiling. On reaching the middle of the room, he stopped, too exhausted to continue. The air in the cavern was moist and warm. He lay on the spongy reddish floor and turned off his light to conserve the batteries. From far below came a deep noise, like a giant's heartbeat, and it calmed him, a metronome tuned to his body's rhythms.

He closed his eyes and saw Leonora giving birth and heard the commotion as Dillon, assisted by the redhead, performed the delivery on a table in the dining car. Gold held the infant aloft for everyone to see.

"That's so sweet that you're naming him after Lewis," Dawn said. "He was such a good friend to all of us."

Lewis again felt tears forming. Then he became aware of Cybele's presence. The walls emitted soft, reddish light, enough for him to see her. She stood facing him. His pack and sword lay near her feet. He thought she smiled, a soft, personal smile, as if recalling the memory of something pleasant.

"I had to find you, my love," he said. "But the horse...it wouldn't let me pass."

She touched a finger to her lips. "Now that you have found me you will remain forever," she said. She picked up his sword.

Lewis stood. "Attis cleaved his loins and from his blood the land gained renewal," he said. She held the scabbard with the pommel toward him, and he slid the blade free. This is how it was meant to be, the tale he must fulfill. His actions here would save the rest, allow the train to leave. His companions would remember him. Gold and Leonora's child carried his name. He raised the sword, with the blade pointed at his groin. Cybele sat with the same joyful expression, waiting for his blood to drench her.

Was this her moment then? Damn her for manipulating him into this. She knew he would act to save the rest, knew he must satisfy the tale. He held the sword with arms raised and rotated it to point toward the distant ceiling. One quick downward thrust to reach an ending.

Downward then, but not at himself. The blade cut into Cybele's neck. Severing her head required two more swings. Blood jetted from her neck, covering him and the cave floor. Her head rested nearby, lips still showing that soft smile.

He dropped the sword and sank to his knees. His hands were sticky, and he wiped them in the dirt, blending the shades of red. The glowing walls faded, and the deep noise from below stopped.

After a time, he thought he felt a tremor and groped for his light. In its narrow beam the room appeared to have decreased in size; the ceiling now hovered a few yards over his head and the surrounding walls drew closer. He felt a tremor again, more definite this time, from somewhere deep in the rock, and he hurried, as fast as he could move his exhausted limbs, back along the way he had come.

In the room over the stream, he sank to his knees. A glow of sunlight marked the entrance to the hole he had squeezed through, a distant star, alone in the encroaching dark. He would float to it on a bed of moist air. Unable to stand, he crawled toward the hole, leaving his sword and pack. What need did he have for food? Life here was over now, thanks to him, his selfish act. But he would rather die in the light than down here. The dirt in the room cushioned his hands and knees, but he had to stop several times to let his racing heart slow. Breathing became difficult, the dark air viscous and bloody. At the hole, he strained his body through the squeeze point, tearing...tight knuckles pressing rocks...into the wider passage beyond.

A hard rain fell, pooling below the entrance. He sat just inside the overhang and watched the large, slopping drops. His knuckles were raw and it hurt to breathe. The blood dried on his skin and clothes. He touched a patch that matted the hairs on his right arm—the last link with his love. Another tremor shook the ground and he thought he heard a roaring sound from back in the cave, growing closer. He scrambled out and up the ridge, stopping several yards above the cave entrance. The roar increased, the hillside trembled, then water spurted from the cave, a flood culled from rainfall, from the stream, sent out into the world by the tremors of shifting earth and rock. He looked away, afraid of seeing Cybele's body in the effluence.

Mist shrouded the mossy plain, but rain was better than red heat and haze. The rain cleansed him, washing away the blood. Drenched and weary, he sat with his back to a spiny shrub. From the cave, the water continued to flow, cutting a new river.

After a time, he climbed down and walked along the river, which had already gouged a bed through the dry earth. It would lead him, this river sprung from his act. He didn't remember stopping, but at some point he must have camped for the night. He awakened with the stars bright above him. The earth on which he lay vibrated, a gentle tremor, soothing after his journey. Somewhere back toward the cave, a column of cloud blocked the stars.

~

The twins walked toward him, and he stood to greet them. They had grown, now his height though still slim. Why did they smile? After what he had done...They were holding hands, and with their free hands they reached for his, forming a silent circle, the three of them beneath the night sky.

~

A dazzling sun rose clean and yellow; gone was the rusty haze that had afflicted the land. He dozed, and he dreamed that Dawn lifted him. He floated in her arms.

"He doesn't weigh a thing but you'd better carry him."

Another shape reached out, Bodyssia; she took him from Dawn. Above him, the blue sky smiled. It pulled at him, but she held him with a firm grip. One of his arms wedged between his body and hers; he flailed the other until he became too tired to struggle. Her face hovered above him, her strong jaw, her lips moving, forming shapes that must have had significance. Whatever her plan, he could do nothing to stop her. She stumbled, dropping him. Above him, the sky was no longer blue; haze obscured the sun. Rumblings sounded from somewhere, and the ground on which he lay trembled. Bodyssia picked him up and they continued.

"Here's the boat," Dawn said, and Bodyssia laid him in the middle, then got in.

A motor sounded, and they pushed across the river, again wide and full. He stared up at the gray sky, which appeared to be thicker toward the direction of the cave. Swirling as though alive, the gray flowed outward, accompanied by rumblings that didn't come from the sky. Someone stroked his forehead; he smiled at Dawn and closed his eyes to shut out the swirling gray.

He felt himself being lifted again but kept his eyes closed. When he opened them, the sky had ended, and they entered a room with a familiar ceiling. He heard voices, someone who sounded like Dillon saying something about breaking up and getting out. Bodyssia with firm hands undressed him and laid him on his bed. He heard more voices, fragments of conversation, but didn't feel a need to respond. At some point his insides lurched and he looked up to see clouded windows. Another time he awoke to the touch of a moist cloth on his forehead. Later, Dawn handed him a mug of clear broth and another of Cinteotl's tea. He drank them both and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was alone. Someone had removed the dead rosemary shrub; scatterings of needles remained, brown piles on the landscape of his desk.

Chapter 36: Return

After the performance ended, everyone gathered in the dining car to say goodbye to Lewis. Cinteotl grilled the last of the acrobats' fish and one of the flightless birds. Lewis gorged on bird, but the thought of fish, of anything from that place, nauseated him. Cinteotl had brewed beer as well; János and Perry kept Lewis's glass from emptying, despite Dawn's worry that he wasn't convalesced enough to be drinking. It was true he hadn't regained all his weight or strength, and he would have liked to remain longer, nursed by Dawn and Bodyssia, but Dillon said they had reached a place where Lewis could leave.

Lewis didn't ask for details. With all that had happened, whether or not he believed the tale was irrelevant. He found himself willing to trust Dillon's judgment.

Miss Linda was now several months pregnant, the last of Cybele's babies.

Looking around the car at his companions' faces, he thought about their lives with the circus, the places they visited. The events back in the cave, in that parched land—his companions had no way of knowing how he had saved them. But that didn't matter. He smiled. In a way, they were all children, though with adult bodies and desires. He had been able to return them to their way of life. That was enough.

He would slip out later, without a big farewell, though really, most of them appeared indifferent to his departure. Its parts changed, but the circus remained, an organism immune to the exits of its members.

Desmonica, Lullaby, and the Chala women rinsed plates in the sink and left; Dawn kissed his lips; the acrobats kissed both cheeks and embraced him; Gold and Leonora carried their baby out without comment; Bodyssia picked him up and held him.

"You've gained a bit of weight since we found you out in the waste," she said. She set him on the edge of the table. "We'll see you around, then."

Perry shook Lewis's right hand with both of his. "Don't forget to check for Oblong Henry in the stores. We'll be here a few days, so you can always come back if this place isn't suitable."

Cinteotl presented him with a packet of food. "Never know what you'll find here," he said.

Lewis returned to his room. The view outside the window showed city streets with a familiar look. He had the money he had brought with him when he cleaned out his account before joining the circus, and Dillon had given him more, much more. Are No's fishing lure still hung over his desk; he took it down and wrapped it in a sock as he had when he fled that burning house. The etching, with its sad Cybele faces, he left on the wall, a present to whomever next used the room. He wore the boots and thick cotton shirt of his costume with the jeans he had worn the day he arrived. Shouldering his backpack and satchel, he walked away, down the hall to the caboose and out of the train.

Cold wind cut through his shirt, and this surprised him—he hadn't expected to return to the same season he had left so long ago, after Are No's fire. Around him on the broad avenue stood apartment buildings, restaurants, and bodegas. Horns honked. Taxis raced across lanes to pick up fares. He walked uptown, glancing at the windows of stores selling watches and silver jewelry. Had he seen that same display of chains and watches the week before visiting Are No's house? At 35th Street he turned and passed what appeared to be his favorite Korean restaurant, and a few doors farther, the hotel that housed the salon where he used to go for haircuts. He walked and walked, and though the walking brought him no closer to knowing whether he had returned to his own city, he found the question no longer troubled him.

Acknowledgments

This novel originally appeared in a hardcover edition from Prime Books in 2004.

The World of Clowns by George Bishop provided much useful information; Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus gave inspiration. Apologies to William Shakespeare for adapting Pericles Prince of Tyre.

Robert Freeman Wexler interviewed by Jeff VanderMeer

JV: Robert Freeman Wexler snuck onto the scene with his novella In Springdale Town (PS Publishing), which garnered well-deserved praise from John Clute and many others, including myself on Locus Online. In addition, the novella was taken for The Best Short Novels of 2004 (SFBC). Prime Books published his first novel, The Circus of the Grand Design in 2004, and second novel The Painting and the City came out in 2009 from PS Publishing. In 2007, Spilt Milk Press published a short story chapbook, Psychological Methods To Sell Should Be Destroyed. A graduate of the Clarion West Writer's Workshop, Wexler lives in Yellow Springs, Ohio, with his wife, writer Rebecca Kuder, and daughter. I interviewed him via e-mail in November 2004 (with updates in April 2011).

Now that you've had a chance to sit back and reflect on Circus of the Grand Design, what do you think the book is about?

RW: It's a classic tale of good and evil, cleanliness and garbage, habit and spontaneity. And it's a straightforward story about a restless guy who doesn't have a lot of friends and joins a circus, not knowing that it's a fantasy circus and he's totally fucked. Which is probably a metaphor for something. Probably has to do with me, feeling like an outsider, wanting to find someplace where I'm not an outsider. But since I'm pretty sedentary, I sent Lewis out in my place, to have some adventures.

JV: You say Lewis is "totally fucked," and you mean that literally. Did you know from the beginning that there would be sex scenes in the novel, and were they difficult to write?

RW: I didn't plan them at the beginning. My original notes said: "Man meets woman in circus of course for romantic angle." Once I discovered that she was a fertility goddess, the sex followed of necessity. They weren't difficult to write, other than technical aspects of trying to keep them from being clichéd or boring. It's rare to find sex written in interesting or even erotic ways. And I suppose a good sex scene should arouse the writer a bit while writing.

JV: You get the sense that no matter how deep into the surreal world of the circus Lewis gets, and no matter how exasperated, he'd rather be there than in the more mundane world. Do you consider Circus to be an escapist fantasy? Is it about Lewis' inability to face his problems in the "real" world?

RW: It's escapist in the sense that he's left his world for another. The idea of a person going to an alternate world has been done (and overdone) a lot in fantasy. But escapist has more to do with people entering an alternate world and finding love and adventure, which they somehow couldn't do in the real world. Obviously I'm borrowing some of those tropes (Lewis finds a sword and uses it). I suppose I think of escapist as derogatory, a term for shallow entertainments, so I'm trying to distance myself from it. Maybe that's a dumb thing to do. There's nothing wrong with entertainment.

I like having the fantastic intrude on the real world and real-world characters. Lewis has to figure out what is going on around him. He's continuously doubting his place there, questioning his attitudes, the way he talks and interacts with the circus people. And when he finally feels that he's fully part of things, he gets kicked around. One problem with writing this kind of normal-person-encounters-the-fantastic is that I have to balance his worldview, in which the fantastic hadn't previously existed, with the expectations of the reader of fantastic fiction, who might become impatient with Lewis's slowness in figuring things out. Lewis has never seen this sort of thing, but the reader has.

JV: Is Lewis is a sympathetic character?

RW: Yes. Assuming by sympathetic you mean that he's someone the reader will care about. He's not exactly likeable (Faren Miller, in Locus, called him a "restless mundane jerk."), and to some readers (and writers) a character has to be likeable to be sympathetic.

JV: What does Lewis learn from his adventures? Or is it necessary that he learn anything at all?

RW: He'll probably be calmer. People like Are No won't bother him as much. I don't think he has to learn something. I don't like fiction in which you can see, as you read, where the character starts to go through "character change" in a textbook, writing manual way, then later the change increases, so that by then end it's obvious they've Changed.

JV: Maybe he just learns that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, the world remains a mystery? Do you believe in revealing mysteries in your work, or in perpetuating mystery?

RW: Oh, both. I don't like explanations for mysteries, but sometimes they're necessary because the characters would want them. And sometimes they're not necessary. In The Circus of Dr. Lao there's a part describing the peep show. Here's a circus in a small, dusty Arizona town during the Depression; the peep show is in "a small tent off by itself," with a curtain that has holes for people to peer through. They see things like fat nymphs lounging on rocks by the ocean, and there's no questioning by the characters, or the authorial voice; the scene is presented as is, with the reader interpreting it however they might. That's the kind of fantasy intrusion on the real world that I like best.

JV: How did you come up with the character Are No?

RW: Are No (and his house full of crappy art) is based on someone from whom I rented a vacation house on Long Island. There's a clue about his real name in there somewhere, but I'm not saying. I reserved the house for four nights, two alone and two with my girlfriend at the time. I didn't much like it. The upstairs heat didn't work (though the guy swore it did), there wasn't enough firewood, the walls were covered with pretentious art. So I left after two nights (with the house intact). On the train ride home, I wrote. It was the first time I've fictionalized an experience immediately after it happened. Because of that, I now have trouble remembering what actually happened and what I made up. My brain never had time to absorb the experience. I do know some things. No locked cabinet full of fishing lures, though there was a locked closet upstairs. He didn't allow meat in the house, so my big revenge for the useless heater, etc., was to cook a pot of stewed beef tripe. I know that's not as exciting as burning the place. My purpose in going to the house was to come up with a new beginning for the novel, so it worked out. Before, I didn't have motivation for Lewis to join the circus.

JV: However, you can't offer definitive proof, since you're unsure what you made up and what actually happened, that you didn't burn the place down. Is it at all possible that "Are No" will read this interview and call you on your tripe revenge?

RW: It's possible. If he really exists, and it wasn't some fantasy house I found myself in, from which I was fortunate to escape before I really did burn it down and join Dillon's circus. What if that had happened? Then I could have written a circus memoir and made barrels of money, would have a huge print run from Bantam or some other giant conglomerate instead of a small press limited edition. Then the movie, with Ben Affleck as Are No, Liam Neeson as Dillon, Julia Roberts as Bodyssia, the giantess, and of course Matt Damon as Lewis.

JV: Do you plan to write about Are No in the future? He's a very compelling and unintentionally funny character.

RW: His artwork appears in The Painting and the City, which is about a sculptor named Jacob Lerner. Lerner's gallery also represents Are No, and when Lerner goes to visit the gallery owner (a man named Ventricle Savage):

In Savage's gallery, Lerner encountered an exhibit of Are No's iridescent flop.

"If you'd like to know more about the artist, we have information handouts at the desk."

The speaker was a thin, youngish man. Some new imp-hireling of Savage's. He smiled at Lerner, the measured smile of someone judging the likelihood of Lerner's being able to purchase art. He had obviously started working there sometime after Lerner's most recent show. When was that—September? Already nine months. Long enough for him to have gestated a new body of work. Savage likely wouldn't give him another solo exhibition so soon. His general rule was every other year. And if someone's work didn't sell adequately, even more time passed. Lerner was eager for his recent sculptures to be seen. Sometimes Savage would arrange a group show of one or two new pieces by his main artists. Lerner asked the young man to get Savage, and waited, focusing on an area of floor rather than Are No's rancid shapes.

An inescapable fact: he had to share the same gallery with mindless crap. Are No's pieces—made using spray cans of insulation foam, the kind that expanded and hardened in the air, which he then painted in neon colors—sold well, and sales drove any gallery's list. Fortunately, Lerner liked and respected most of Savage's other artists, Joyce Harkness, Scott Eagle, Jane Andrews, Olaf the Wise.

JV: What role does humor play in your fiction? Clearly, Are No and Ventricle Savage are not particularly serious names.

RW: I like humor. I like the absurd. In the past, I've had a tendency toward trying to be funnier. I try to be careful with it. I'll take some stuff out in revision because I don't want humor to overwhelm the rest of the story.

There's a North Carolina folk artist named Mary Paulsen. Behind her house/studio/yard gallery are piles of junk that goes into her art, or rots. A sign in the driveway says "Savage." I assume it means "Salvage." I thought, what if someone from that background ends up as a gallery owner in Manhattan. His re-invention of self (everyone who goes to New York re-invents themselves) would take something from his background, hence Savage. Ventricle probably has to do with gallery owners being heartless bastards.

JV: Changing direction for a moment: Have you been to many circuses?

RW: Not really. Maybe three in my life. The sister of my college girlfriend had been in Ringling Brothers and was married to a Hungarian teeter-boarder. I spent some time with them, the teeter-boarders' teeter-boarder brother, other teeter-boarders here and there. At some point before I came along, a whole camper full of teeter-boarders and who knows what else spent a winter at my girlfriend's parent's house, which I heard stories about.

JV: What is a teeter-boarder, for those who, like me, won't know?

RW: It's the big seesaw thing that acrobat types use, jumping on one end to send the other person into the air so they can somersault, back-flip, land on another acrobat to make human pyramids, etc.

JV: Have you ever performed in a circus?

RW: Not yet.

JV: Would you like to? What type of circus performer would you be?

RW: A zebra rider, but it wouldn't be possible at my age. Zebras riders are trained from infancy. The first thing they're allowed to do with a zebra is polish the fangs of young zebras. Becoming accustomed to a zebra's fangs is, obviously, important. And the activity helps determine who has the ability to advance into the zebra training academies, because a zebra rider must have two hands.

JV: Do you have any favorite circus short stories or novels?

RW: Including carnivals too, Angela Carter's Nights at the Circus. The Circus of Dr. Lao, Bradbury's Something Wicked This Way Comes. Katherine Dunn's Geek Love. There's an amazing book. I'd love to be able to tell a story like that. Quin's Shanghai Circus, which isn't really about a circus although there is one in the book.

JV: What, in particular, did you like about Nights at the Circus?

RW: The freedom of it. The barely-restrained chaos. The fully-imagined characters, the story, the stories within stories, the lustiness. I consider it my inspiration, but I wasn't trying to emulate it. I don't think I'd be capable of emulating it. Though Lewis is based somewhat on Jack Walser. Walser the reporter/Lewis the publicist, both wanderers, but somewhat blank, waiting to be filled. I read Nights at the Circus and Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale about the same time, and they exploded my ideas of the fantastic.

JV: Out of curiosity — what did Helprin's novel explode for you, specifically?

RW: Style, for one thing. Slow, descriptive passages, fantasy that builds layer by layer, including landscape and city that feel familiar but aren't quite real. Style that differed from the more plot-oriented genre books I had been reading. Also, the timing of when I read it was important. Soon after college I got a job at a Waldenbooks, but because it was a small store in an old, '50s era shopping plaza, it didn't have that plastic, shopping mall chain store feel, and everyone who worked there was into books (which I doubt is true in the shopping mall stores). We could get away with a lot of special ordering of books that the store wouldn't normally carry. So if I heard about a particular book, or writer, I could order books for the store and read them myself. During this period I also got into J.G. Ballard, Robert Coover, things with fantasy elements but published outside of the genre (aside from Ballard of course, though at the time his books were being repackaged as literary rather than genre).

I started working there in the summer of 1984. Neuromancer came out that year, as did Nights at the Circus and Empire of the Sun. Winter's Tale came out in 1983, with the paperback in 1984. I loved Neuromancer, but stylistically, it wasn't my kind of thing. Unfortunately, reading all this non-genre literature of the fantastic led me to believe that literary journals would be open to my style of writing, which turned out not to be true.

JV: What do you think is the appeal of the circus for a fantasy novel?

RW: Having a bunch of odd, flamboyant characters to play around with. The theatricality. Also, it's a closed community. A newcomer is always an outsider.

JV: Do you see the circus characters in your novel as ultimately alien or unknowable?

RW: They're alien to Lewis. For him to be accepted he has to accept them. They possess their own way of being, and he can't make them conform to his idea of what a person is.

JV: How different is writing a story from writing a novel, for you?

RW: They're similar, in that either way I have no idea what I'm doing or what is going to happen. I usually start with maybe a character and a situation, and keep moving. With Circus of the Grand Design, I knew it was a novel. A good bit of the framework popped into my head at once. I thought I knew the ending, but before I got there I realized it wouldn't be the right one. I do think it helps to have more of something, outline, framework, before getting started with a novel than with a story. It's exhausting to keep at it without knowing where it's going. With a story, you get there sooner. When I started The Painting and the City, I thought it would be a long story, maybe 10,000 words, but there was more to it than I realized. Certain things led to other things.

JV: Now, Circus of the Grand Design was written before In Springdale Town, your novella from PS Publishing. Did you learn anything writing Circus that you could then apply to Springdale?

RW: Yes and no, and more no than yes. With Circus, I suppose I learned something about writing a long, simple narrative, but Springdale is a shorter, more complex narrative. Aside from learning to write better from the act of writing, I learned a lot about perseverance, learned that it's okay to set things aside and get back to them, to keep pushing with something if you believe in it. Circus took shape (and reshape) over a long period, and I wasn't having much success getting anything published. It would have been easy to give up.

JV: What is The Painting and the City about?

RW: More of that fantastic brushing up against reality stuff. It's set in New York City in late Spring/early Summer 2001. A sculptor named Jacob Lerner sees a painting by (fictional) 19th Century Dutch artist Philip Schuyler and becomes obsessed. Most of the book is from Lerner's point of view, but I also include two sections of Schuyler's journal, from his visit to New York in 1842, and a later one, from Indonesia.

JV: How is it different from your previous work?

RW: It's more political. I use Lerner's time in the studio to express things that go through his mind as he works, rants about big business, art and commerce, repression, homelessness. Also, I tend to write these man alone stories, so I tried to make him less alone.

JV: You're a book designer, in addition to being a writer, and you did your own interior design. Have you enjoyed that process? Tell me something about it.

RW: I did enjoy it, eventually. With Springdale, when I started the design process, I wanted to delete everything. I kept looking at what I'd written (especially the side-notes) and saying, "Who's going to want to read this crap?" I had to separate myself from being the writer and get on with it. The publisher hadn't paid me for a blank book.

For Circus, I knew what to expect, and skipped over all the self-doubt and got on with it. I used the typeface Sabon because that's what was used for the U.S. edition of Nights at the Circus. Maybe the British edition too, I haven't seen it. For the press release and other typed bits that Lewis writes, I found a typewriter font that I liked. Overall, I wanted a look that would help the reader. Most small press books are ugly. Sometimes large publisher's books, too. A lot of emphasis goes toward the cover and less on the inside. The cover may help sell the book, but an ugly interior can make the reader put it down.

For The Painting and the City, I needed separation between the main text and the journals. I set the text in Perpetua, which is a modern font, and for the journals I used Nicolas Cochin, which, to quote from the font house: "Nicolas Cochin (not to be confused with another font named simply "Cochin") was originally designed by Georges Peignot in the early 20th Century. It was based on engraved letters of the 17th Century artist Charles Nicolas Cochin....The new Lanston digitization is the only digital version to retain the idiosyncratic treatment which makes the metal type so alluring."

JV: Are you working on a new novel? And can we hope to see any new short fiction in print?

RW: Yes to novel, no to short fiction in print. I generally work on one thing at a time, and don't write much short fiction. I have a new novelette that I've just started sending out, and I'm working on another story. I've written the first part of a novel and am taking a break from it before going on to part 2.

JV: What can you tell me about the new novel?

RW: It's even more political than The Painting and the City. It's also more of an overt fantasy than I usually write, though it's also a real-world setting in which the fantastic intrudes. It's set in Springdale, the mythical New England town from In Springdale Town. Currently called either New Springdale Novel or Recollections of a Malleable Future. I can't say a whole lot more about it right now.

JV: In closing, what's your favorite line in Circus of the Grand Design?

RW: I can't think of one offhand. It's weird, looking at the book and seeing different words from different stages of the book's evolution. There are a few sentences that are pretty much original. The Locus review quoted from some of the newest stuff, from a few paragraphs early in the book that I wrote right before starting on the layout. Seeing those lines in the review made me happy.

JV: Thanks, Robert.

~

(This is an updated version of an interview first published on SF Site and is reproduced with the kind permission of SF Site and Jeff VanderMeer.)

advertising feature: more from infinity plus

science fiction, fantasy, horror and crime ebooks for Kindle and other formats

by top authors, including:

Keith Brooke, Eric Brown, John Grant, Anna Tambour, Kaitlin Queen, Molly Brown, Garry Kilworth, Iain Rowan, Neil Williamson, Robert Freeman Wexler, Paul di Filippo and others.

"If Roald Dahl had written science fiction, he would have written this kind"

"twists and turns galore ... the taut tale-telling rattles along at good speed; and the solution to the mystery is both startling and satisfying. Recommended."

"very inventive and clever... five stars for entertainment value."

"a story of scope and vision, as intricate as a snowflake... astoundingly believable"

For full details of infinity plus ebooks see www.infinityplus.co.uk/books

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapter 1: Point Elizabeth

Chapter 2: Fires

Chapter 3: Dillon

Chapter 4: The Circus

Part Two

Chapter 5: Cinteotl and Gold

Chapter 6: The Schedule is Ephemeral

Chapter 7: Spring Rain

Chapter 8: Rebellion

Chapter 9: Explorations

Chapter 10: Celebration

Part Three

Chapter 11: An Interview

Chapter 12: A Map

Chapter 13: Advice on Love

Chapter 14: Metal

Chapter 15: Movies

Chapter 16: Missed Performances

Chapter 17: Ex-Wives and Crackpot Theories

Chapter 18: Visitations and Outside Air

Chapter 19: The Circus Performs 96

Part Four

Chapter 20: Improvisation

Chapter 21: Costumes and Encounters

Chapter 22: Rehearsal 122

Chapter 23: A Promising Place

Chapter 24: Scheduling Conflict

Chapter 25: Flood

Chapter 26: Immaculate Conception

Chapter 27: Dictates of the Locale

Chapter 28: Further Adventures under the Mall Town

Chapter 29: Precautions Must Be Taken

Chapter 30: Desolation and Disharmony

Chapter 31: Comfort in the Midst

Part Five

Chapter 32: Everywhere Green

Chapter 33: Cybele's Land

Chapter 34: Rider in a Parched Land

Chapter 35: The Cave

Chapter 36: Return

Acknowledgments

Robert Freeman Wexler interviewed by Jeff VanderMeer

Advertising feature: more from infinity plus