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I turned back to ask her what she meant, only to see a wisp of fog disappear to nothing.
“Find me before the serpent of the night devours me,” her voice echoed.
I closed my eyes against the unsettling mystery, and when I opened them, the sun was up.
5
I STRETCHED, AND SUNLIGHT GLINTED off my ring, reminding me of my dream. How curious, I thought. What strange fancies fatigue brings. Exhaustion had tumbled Miss Dibble’s odd words of a skeleton and a foreign lady into a delirium that seemed very real.
I felt a little peculiar about the ring now, and maybe it was a mite garish, with the gold snake setting and the turquoise stone carved to look like a beetle. I wanted people to think me an up
standing fellow suitable for employment, not a bohemian. Perhaps I should follow Miss Dibble’s advice. I fished the chain she had given me from my jacket pocket and hung the scarab ring safe but out of sight around my neck.
I stood up and brushed myself down. It was time for me to find a job.
Across the field was a huge red-and-yellow-striped tent—the big top. A multitude of smaller canvas tents scattered the meadow to the left of it, like a village at the foot of a castle. That must be the circus backyard. Beyond those tents the circus train rested along tracks that ran parallel to the road I had left. Perhaps one of the train cars contained the manager’s office. As I wound through the village of tents, shabby, plump women hung wash on improvised lines, and barefoot children chased dogs over tent pegs and under ropes. A delicious aroma of bacon wafted through the air. My stomach yearned for breakfast. I hoped I could join the circus in time to get some.
I walked along the train, a string of multicolored passenger carriages, flatbeds, and livestock cars, and searched for any sort of sign amid the decorations and emblems on the carriages. A door opened ahead of me, and six young men with white tights evident beneath flowing blue capes tumbled out and hurried by, laughing and jostling. They disappeared into a tent before I thought to ask them directions. Music came from a passenger car I passed—a tuba, I guessed—and from somewhere an elephant trumpeted as if in answer. Excitement buzzed in my throat.
I had stopped to look at an amazing desert scene that meandered the length of an entire sleeper car, when two clean-shaven gentlemen approached. They were dressed in robes and Arabian headdresses, as if they had dismounted from the camels in the picture.
“Excuse me,” I said, and they stopped to eye me with amused curiosity. “Could you please direct me to the manager’s office?” I inquired.
“Are you selling something?” one of them asked. He sounded English rather than Arabian, I fancied.
“I’m looking for a job,” I answered.
His companion, who appeared to be his younger brother, nudged him with an elbow. “Standards are rising, Eddie. The dung shovelers wear suits to interview these days.”
“I’m … I’m a knife thrower,” I stammered.
Eddie laughed, and his younger brother winced. “I’m afraid we’ve got one of those,” the younger brother said.
“It’s a knife thrower’s assistant we’re missing,” said Eddie, raising his eyebrows.
“So we are,” agreed the younger brother. “They just had a bang-out fight in the cookhouse. Mr. Rose had a dream last night that he stuck her full of blades. He was telling everyone in detail. He thought it very funny, but she didn’t, because she’d had the same dream, so she quit.”
I remembered that the ghostly woman had spoken of meddling in dreams, and I came over funny for a moment. I shrugged the feeling off. This was coincidence, that’s all.
“So if you want to work for a man not known for his sensitive nature, the way is clear,” said Eddie.
“It’s a start,” I said.
Eddie nodded approvingly. “You’ll find the manager five cars down.”
“Hide Mr. Rose’s bottle before the show,” said the younger brother.
“And don’t get him mad,” said Eddie.
They entered their desert-painted carriage laughing.
They’re teasing me, I decided as I found the manager’s car. This man couldn’t be all that bad, else the circus wouldn’t hire him. What a stroke of luck there was a place with a knife thrower open. Perhaps he could tutor me and even give me my first chance in the ring.
A smart young man with a middle part in his hair and a small mustache looked up as I entered the business office. The plaque on his desk identified him as A. Marvel. My lips twitched, but one look at his face convinced me he wouldn’t enjoy the joke. I presented myself as an apprentice knife thrower, happy to serve as an assistant to the incumbent.
“Well, aren’t you a godsend?” Mr. A. Marvel said. “But this is only until we find him a pretty girl to help, you understand.”
I nodded; I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
