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It was the shadow woman from the field. Surely not? Had I hit my head in the fall from the train? Was I addled? I decided to ignore the voice.
“I did not want to throw you from the carriage, but you were traveling too far.”
That settled it. No doubt, in reality I was curled up asleep by the tracks. I stopped and faced the shadow beside me. A faint glow outlined the dark shape of a woman. “You were not on the train, dream,” I said. “A gang of plug-uglies threw me off the train.”
“I’m afraid I did suggest it,” she said, and hung her head.
“That was a man.”
“Who held your ring in his fist. I can touch others via the ring. His mind was weak with fear, and I was able to speak through him.”
My hand rose automatically to the ring. I remembered the glazed eyes of the clown and shivered, then snatched my hand away. I set off walking briskly again, looking straight ahead, and hoped to leave this dream behind.
“There is a house by a barn,” she called after me. “A skeleton man will come and take you to me.”
Several minutes passed and she did not speak again. The air felt thinner, and the world expanded around me. With surprise I noted the night sky had taken on the silvery gray of predawn and dispelled the walking dreams of dark. Up ahead the track divided, and along the right-hand spur a large building loomed. I was alone.
I struggled up the embankment at the back of a barn with a peeling and faded livery sign painted on the wall. It isn’t unlikely that there would he a barn near railroad tracks—or houses, for that matter, I told myself. That had been no prophecy, and there was no strange woman speaking through other people’s mouths because of my ring. That lady was a ridiculous hallucination brought on by stress and fatigue. And pain. My body screamed a protest all the way up the incline, and I yearned bone-deep for a pile of hay to curl up in. I had to rest before I could go on. I met great disappointment around the side, however, for there sat a modest, high-sided cart under a stand of trees, and a figure was astir in the shadows of the canopy. How could I slip into a barn to sleep while the owner guarded the door, and how would I explain myself to a stern, hardworking farmer, alone as I was, and coming out of nowhere at dawn?
I crept by in the shadow of the barn wall. Oh, how I ached for the soft straw bedding inside. Then, down the dirt road out front, I noticed a house with windows lit, and I cheered up. If I had to explain myself, I would rather it be to a sympathetic farm wife in her cozy kitchen, with prospects of a real bed in return for chores. I hurried through the dewy grass to the road, accompanied by the scuttles of awakening wildlife. Somewhere behind me a rooster crowed.
As I drew close to the house, unexpected piano music met me, and not a serious paean to the dawn by a long-dead composer, or a lilting Broadway air, but a raucous, jangling, rollicking, tinkling tapestry that made even my own weary legs want to dance. I recognized the music as ragtime—the new style played by Negro bands. What is this place? I wondered as I walked up the hedge-lined path and knocked on the bright red front door.
Laughter signaled a woman’s approach. I smoothed my hair and wiped grit from the corners of my eyes and noticed, too late, a tear in my trousers. The door opened not on the simple farmwife I had anticipated, but on a lady still clad in the fancy garb of a night on the town, her face painted in a way I would not expect a country face to be.
“What is it, darlin’?” she asked.
I lost track of my words when I glimpsed a giggling lady in her chemise flash by an open parlor door at the end of the hallway. A man in shirttails and black socks, with his bowler still on his head, chased her. With a combination of excitement, anxiety, and awe, I realized this must be a house of ill repute.
“Please, ma’am … if I do you some chores … would you provide me with a bed?” I managed to stammer out.
“Well, darlin’, we usually provide you the bed, and then you do the chores,” she replied with a wicked grin, and I blushed.
“Truly,” I said. “I could chop wood or do kitchen work. Or perhaps I could entertain your guests.” I was too tired to debate morals with myself. “I have some skill as a knife thrower.”
The woman cocked her head with interest. “I thought you might be circus folk,” she said, much to my puzzlement. “Well, you can come in, but your monkey has to stay outside.”
“What?” I turned in haste to look where her eyes were fixed.
A familiar face poked out through the bushes. “I am not a monk
ey!” exclaimed Apollo, and he struggled the rest of the way into the light.
The woman screamed, her eyes rolled up, and her knees buckled.
I grabbed Apollo’s arm and dragged him down the path. In moments, angry and frightened patrons and ladies of easy virtue would run to the door; maybe they wouldn’t wait for explanations. I didn’t stop until a stand of trees hid us from the house.
“Where did you come from? How did you get here? How did you get out?” I gasped between rasping breaths.
“A man let me out and gave me a ride here,” Apollo said, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” This time he took my arm, and he tugged me back toward the barn.
“Is he from the circus?” I asked as we walked.
“No,” answered Apollo. “He was looking for someone and found me instead. He said, ‘Is that you, Willie?’ and I said, ‘No,’ and he said, ‘Damn.’”
How curious. “Did he break the door down?”
“He didn’t have to,” Apollo answered. “That girl you’re sweet on showed up. She had the key. She stole it, I think.”
