Aftermath
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1902
Though the surroundings have changed, the circus looks exactly the same as it did in his own fields, Bailey thinks when he finally reaches the fence, holding a stitch in his side and breathing heavily from running through an area that is more woods than fields.
But something more than that is different. It takes him a moment of trying to catch his breath by the side of the gates, staring at the sign that reads:
hanging over the normal sign denoting the hours of operation.
It is the smell, he realizes. It is not the smell of caramel blended perfectly with the woody smoke of a warming fire. Instead it is the heavy scent of something burned and wet, with a sickly sweet undertone.
It makes him nauseous.
There is no sound within the bounds of the curling iron fence. The tents are perfectly still. Only the clock beyond the gates makes any motion, slowly ticking by the afternoon hours.
Bailey discovers quickly that he is not able to slip through the bars of the fence as easily as he did when he was ten. The space is too narrow, no matter how he tries to shift his shoulders. He half expected Poppet to be there waiting for him, but there is not a soul in sight.
The fence is too high to climb, and Bailey is considering simply sitting in front of the gates until sundown when he spots a curving tree branch that does not quite reach the fence but comes close, hanging above the twisting iron spikes at the top.
From there he could jump. If he got the angle right he would land in a path between tents. If he got the angle wrong he’d likely break his leg, but that would be only a minor problem that could be dealt with, and then at least he would be inside the circus.
The tree is easy enough to climb, and the limb closest to the circus wide enough to manage until he gets closer to the fence. But he is unable to balance well and while he attempts a graceful leap, it ends up being something closer to a planned fall. He lands heavily in the path, rolling into the side of the tent and taking a large amount of the white powder on the ground with him.
His legs hurt but seem to be in working order, though his shoulder feels badly bruised and the palms of his hands are a mess of scrapes and dirt and powder. The powder brushes off his hands easily enough, but sticks like paint to his coat and the legs of his new suit. And now he stands alone inside the circus again.
“Truth or dare,” he mutters to himself.
Dry, fragile leaves dance around his feet, drawn in through the fence by the wind. Spots of muted autumn color disrupting the black and white.
Bailey is not certain where to go. He wanders through paths expecting to see Poppet around every corner, but he is met with only stripes and emptiness. Finally, he heads toward the courtyard, toward the bonfire.
As he turns a corner that opens up into the wide space of the bonfire courtyard, he is more surprised by the fact that the fire is not burning than he is to find that there is indeed someone waiting for him.
But the figure standing by the cauldron of curling iron is not Poppet. This woman is too short, her hair too dark. When she turns she has a long silver cigarette holder at her lips, and the smoke curls around her head like snakes.
It takes him a moment to recognize the contortionist, having only ever seen her upon a platform bending herself into impossible shapes.
“You are Bailey, yes?” she says.
“Yes,” Bailey answers, wondering if absolutely everyone in the circus knows who he is.
“You are late,” the contortionist tells him.
“Late for what?” Bailey asks, confused.
“I doubt she will be able to hold on much longer.”
“Who?” Bailey asks, though the thought pops into his head that the contortionist might be referring to the circus itself.
“And of course,” she continues, “had you arrived earlier it might have played out differently. Timing is a sensitive thing.”
“Where’s Poppet?” Bailey asks.
“Miss Penelope is indisposed at the moment.”
“How can she not know that I’m here?” he asks.
“She might very well know you are here, but that does not change the fact that she is, as I have mentioned, indisposed at the moment.”
“Who are you?” Bailey asks. His shoulder is throbbing now and he cannot quite pinpoint when everything stopped making sense.
“You may call me Tsukiko,” the contortionist says. She takes a long drag on her cigarette.
Beyond her, the monstrous bowl of wrought-iron curls sits hollow and still. The ground around it, usually painted in a spiral pattern of black and white, is now nothing but darkness, as though it has been swallowed up by empty space.
“I thought the fire never went out,” Bailey says, walking closer to it.
“It never has before,” Tsukiko says.
Reaching the edge of the still-hot iron curls, Bailey stands on his toes to peer inside. It is almost filled with rainwater, the dark surface rippling in the breeze. The ground beneath his feet is black and muddy, and when he steps back he accidentally kicks a black bowler hat.
“What happened?” Bailey asks.
“That is somewhat difficult to explain,” Tsukiko answers. “It is a long and complicated story.”
“And you’re not going to tell it to me, are you?”
She tilts her head a bit, and Bailey can see the hint of a smile playing around her lips.
“No, I am not,” she says.
“Great,” Bailey mutters under his breath.
“I see you have taken up the banner,” Tsukiko says, pointing her cigarette at his red scarf. Bailey is unsure how to respond to this, but she continues without waiting for an answer. “I suppose you could call it an explosion.”
“The bonfire exploded? How?”
“Remember when I said it was difficult to explain? That has not changed.”
“Why didn’t the tents burn?” Bailey asks, looking around at the seemingly never-ending stripes. Some of the closer tents are splattered with mud, but none are burned despite the charred ground surrounding them.
“That was Miss Bowen’s doing,” Tsukiko says. “I suspect without that precaution there would have been more extensive damage.”
“Who is Miss Bowen?” Bailey asks.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Tsukiko responds.
“You don’t answer very many of them,” Bailey retaliates.
The smile appears in full then, curling up in a manner Bailey finds almost disturbingly friendly.
“I am only an emissary,” Tsukiko says. “I am here to act as convoy to escort you to a meeting, for a discussion of such matters, I suppose, because at the moment I am the only living person who has any idea of what has transpired, and why you are here. Your questions are better saved for someone else.”
“And who might that be?” Bailey asks.
“You shall see,” Tsukiko says. “Come this way.”
She beckons him forward, leading him around the bonfire to the other side of the courtyard. They walk a short way down an adjoining passageway, layers of mud sticking to Bailey’s formerly shiny shoes.
“Here we are.” Tsukiko stops at a tent entrance, and Bailey moves closer to check the sign, knowing which tent it is as soon as he glances at the words upon it.
