Boneyard

  Chapter Six

  Martin had been with the circus, one way or another, since he was six years old and his ma—God rest her soul—took sick with some sort of infection of the lungs. It ate her up over the course of one winter, taking her from hale and healthy and brighter than all the stars in the sky to a withered parody of his mother. His little sister, Bessie, she’d been young enough that she’d been sent off to stay with relatives, for fear that the sick would come into her lungs and take her, too. He supposed no one had worried after him, or maybe it was just that he’d loved his ma so much that no one had been willing to take the two of them away from each other, not when it was so clear that the world was already taking her away.

  But then she’d gone to the ground, and his pa hadn’t been able to stand the sight of him, like it was somehow his fault that sickness had eaten his mother from the inside out, reducing her to fragility an inch at a time. He supposed his pa hadn’t been able to stand the sight of Bessie, either, which was why his little sister had never come home from wherever it was she’d been sent. The relatives who’d been willing to have a healthy little girl young enough to be a blank slate, ready to be overlain with their ideals and values, well. They hadn’t wanted a little boy who woke up crying every night, reaching for the mother who was never coming home.

  Martin supposed he couldn’t blame them. He’d been too young to blame them then, and after that he’d been too hungry and afraid to blame them, and now that he was a grown man of eighteen, he was too weary of the world to blame them. Things were hard enough without taking on someone else’s children just because their parents’d had the bad luck to go and die.

  His pa had kept him for the better part of the spring after his ma died. Had fed him, and clothed him, and let him sleep near enough to the fire that he hadn’t frozen. And then the circus had come to town, and oh! Hadn’t that first night been grand? Sometimes he thought he could live to be as old as anything and still not forget that first night, when his father had pressed three whole pennies into his hand and set him in front of the wagons with their many mysteries, telling him to enjoy himself. Telling him that he’d earned it.

  If his father had been gone by the time he turned around, well, that was just the way life went, wasn’t it? Sometimes parents vanished, and the children they left behind had to find the way to live with the loss. Martin had wandered through the circus until he was too tired to stand anymore, and then he’d curled up on a bale of hay and slept through the night with the sound of the calliope ringing in his ears, like a promise the world was finally intent on keeping.

  That had been the Smithson Family Circus, a small show owned and operated by a pair of third-generation circus folk. He’d never known their real names, or whether he was supposed to call them sir or ma’am, but they’d kept him when they found him, putting him to work luring townie kids closer to the wonders in their wagons. Three years he’d ridden the roads with Smithson, and when they sold him as a working boy to a show heading east, he hadn’t been surprised or disappointed in the slightest. This was how the world worked. People gave you away, and you went, because fighting never helped anyway.

  After Smithson had come a short stint with a show that had no name, where the wagons groaned at night with the chewing of the termites slowly eating their way through the walls, and the so-called “tiger” had been a big mountain cougar painted orange and black every morning by whoever didn’t run fast enough. Only two years there, and at eleven he’d been sold again, this time to Blackstone, who’d said he needed boys with clever hands.

  Martin couldn’t have said what he’d been expecting from his latest home, but it hadn’t been what he’d received: a bed of his own in a wagon with four other boys and one older roustabout who kept an eye on them. Bowls of oatmeal and thick stew and slabs of bread that might have been thick with hulls and half-milled grain, but was still his, needing to be shared with no one. He supposed he would have been loyal forever on the basis of bread alone.

  Now here he was, a man, and he was stepping out afternoons with Sophia the seamstress’s apprentice, who had eyes as brown as polished oak and cheeks pocked with the ghosts of old illness, which meant she didn’t judge him for his own shortcomings. They liked each other well enough, and he supposed they’d marry one day, set up in a wagon of their own and keep traveling with the circus, which was, by now, the only life either of them could ever imagine living. Him, a man! And he owed it all to Mr. Blackstone, who hadn’t looked at him and called him damaged goods or worthless, or any of the other things he’d heard so often since his ma died. He would have done anything for Mr. Blackstone, anything at all to prove that he deserved the chance he’d been given.

  As he looked at the unbroken green line of the forest looming up in front of him, he thought, for the first time, that maybe the past didn’t purely pay for the future: that maybe he ought to put more value on his life than just “a man was kind to me.” Sophia would be heartbroken if he died, and possibly out of her position if he died before marrying her, depending on whether her monthlies had just been fooling with them when she skipped the last couple.

  The trees seemed to loom taller than they were, and given that they were already tall enough to brush the sky, that was a terrifying thought. They were a wall, all green branches and woody trunks as far as the eye could see, and the reason for the town’s name made sudden, terrible sense. If you found something as unique as a clear patch in these trees, you’d want to commemorate it. Of course they’d called their place The Clearing. It was probably the first such anyone had seen in weeks.

  The people who’d come to colonize this land must have been mad, or desperate, or both. The forest cast a great shadow over everything, like the hand of some ever-reaching creature, hungry for the world. The smell of it lingered thick in his nostrils, all resin and sap and a strange, virulent greenness that had no relation to the green fields outside the house where he’d been born, or the various greens that the circus had rolled through with him clinging to the wagons and breathing it all in. Those had been good greens, honest greens, growing greens that wanted to nurture a body as part of their own growing. This green …

  He’d seen trees that had grown down into graves before, only to be knocked over by a storm. When they fell, their roots came up all tangled in bones, wearing dead men like bracelets on their woody arms. This green felt like that, like a whole forest made of trees that dreamt of decorating themselves with the dead. This green was hungry. It was hungry, and it was impossible to shake the feeling that it knew he was there.

  It would have felt like stupid superstition if it hadn’t felt so strong, so true. The trees saw him. The trees saw the rifle in his hands, and they knew what he intended, and they did not approve.

  But Mr. Blackstone’s instructions had been clear. “We need to eat tonight, and we won’t be able to go into town for provisions until they get used to the idea of us,” he’d said. “I want you to go out into the woods and bring us back a deer. Two, if you’re shooting lucky. That’ll put meat in the pot and bones aside for the animals, and it’ll see us to the end of this lean time.”

  It was a simple enough thing to ask of him. Martin wasn’t the best hunter they had—that was little Emily-Ann, and she was striking off into her own patch of wood, along with two of the other roustabouts, which should have meant enough bullets to put meat in every pot tonight—but he was dependable, and he’d done this sort of thing before. He knew, even if Mr. Blackstone wasn’t saying, that the hunt was doubly important because Miss Pearl’s oddities hadn’t been fed in a few days. They were never safe things to have. Some folk with the show thought they should all be put out to die, before they got loose and did what came naturally. But they were profitable, and they were safe enough, as long as they were well-fed.

  The show needed that deer for so many reasons. They needed him to bring it back to them. They needed him to be a man.

  Martin did not want to go into those woods.

  His rifl
e was heavy in his hands, so heavy that he wasn’t sure he could stand it. If he looked back and down into the bowl of the clearing, he would see the town, and he would see the shape of the circus, even now rearranging itself into show and boneyard, settling in. The circus was never as alive as when it put down temporary roots and opened its bright doors to the world. The circus—his home—was looking to him to feed them, fill their bellies and fix their future. He had to go.

  Clutching his rifle close against his chest, trying to ignore the weight of it, Martin walked forward, into the trees. Fallen twigs and dried-up pine needles crackled under his feet. Stealth was not his friend here. He swallowed and kept walking, trying to hold on to the thought that he was not the only person walking through these trees. Even if the other three from the show had gone in different directions, he still wasn’t alone. Being alone in these trees, well …

  He didn’t think he would have been able to bear it, and that was the honest truth. He would have gone back to his wagon and locked himself in until Mr. Blackstone found someone else to send into the woods, because although he wanted to save the show, he wanted to save his soul just as much. If he didn’t have that, he didn’t have anything at all.

  It took only a few steps before the sunlight dropped away entirely, leaving him feeling like the world had been replaced by trees. He looked over his shoulder and saw only more trees, cutting off the light, blocking any sight of open ground. He swallowed hard. Walking in a straight line was the only way he was going to get out of here; he could see that now. If he turned at all, if he lost his way at all, he was going to be walking these woods until he died.

  He wondered whether the roots would wrap gently around his bones, cradling them close and keeping them from the cold. He was direly afraid that he was going to find out.

  Something hooted in the distance. Something rustled in the nearby brush. Martin fought back the instinct to turn and flee, forcing himself to keep walking until he found a fallen tree that could provide some small measure of cover. Then he crouched down and waited, rifle in hand, for something to come along. Hunting was as much about patience as it was about skill. The person who could hold still for the longest was the one who would bring home the bacon.

  The forest seemed to settle around him, growing colder and darker. It was like it had just been waiting for him to stop moving. Martin sank into his crouch, trying to clear his mind of anything beyond the task at hand. He needed to take a deer. He needed to feed the show. He needed to feed Sophia, especially if there was a chance she was with child. He wouldn’t be a father like his father had been. No child of his would ever go to bed hungry, or wondering where their next meal was going to come from. No child of his would ever be alone.

  He sank deeper into pleasant dreams of a future where he would have a wife and a wagon and a child of his own, supporting them off the circus while the circus supported them all the way across the West. Son or daughter, it didn’t matter, as long as the child was healthy and hale, and never had to want for anything.

  He didn’t notice when something passed behind him on ghost-soft feet, making no sound on the needle-covered ground. It was almost close enough to touch at one point, so close that he wrinkled his nose at the distant smell of wet, rank fur. Finally, he looked behind himself.

  There was nothing there.

  When he faced front again, a deer was standing between two trees. It was a young buck, fat and perfect, save for a white splotch on one flank that looked almost like a handprint burned into the fur. Martin didn’t waste time asking himself what could cause such discoloration; he raised his gun and fired, the sound echoing through the trees. The deer leapt, one great, convulsive motion, before collapsing to the ground.

  Martin stood, carefully walking toward his kill. Sometimes death could be a ruse. If the buck sprang back to life, he didn’t want to be close enough to find himself gored by the curving rack of its antlers. It didn’t move. He reached it, nudging it with the barrel of his rifle, and still it did not move.

  Life with the circus was many things, but it was never easy, and it did not encourage softness. Martin was a short, relatively slight man, stunted in some ways by the privations of his childhood. He had no trouble at all in hoisting the buck over his shoulders, letting the weight of it settle on his spine before he turned and made his way back the way he had come, trusting his own footsteps to lead him true.

  Some of the places where he had kicked leaves and needles aside seemed oddly scuffed, like something else had been over that track, obscuring it in the process. Martin thought nothing of it. There were deer in these woods, and for all he knew there were larger things as well, wolves and bears and the like. They’d be a danger in the spring, when they had cubs to protect, and in the depths of winter, when hunger motivated them to try for prey they would normally have left alone. For the moment, they lived close to a human settlement. They knew about guns and fire and all the other tools mankind used to keep the wilds at bay. For all that he had gone into their place to take what he wanted, he wasn’t worried. The trees frightened him more than the possible threat of predators.

  He would have been wiser to look to the sides, to search the trees for eyes, for signs that he was being watched by nameless forces looking to do him harm. He would have been wiser to be afraid. But he was not a wise man, never had been, and when he saw the trees thin to let the light through up ahead, all he felt was relief. He walked faster, the buck a welcome burden, and stepped back into the light of the fading day.

  The Clearing was a picture postcard view before him, perfectly framed by the bowl of their depression. Smaller trails had been cut into the lip of the basin, presumably for use by local hunters; it was one of those that had allowed him access to the wood without needing to walk all the way around. He slid down the trail on the sides of his feet, kicking up a small rain of dirt and pebbles. The town came even more clearly into view, and with it came the circus, now well into the process of setting itself up.

  The wagons had been separated into two distinct camps. The smaller, less gaudy vehicles—the ones where people lived, rather than displaying their wares and talents—were pulled to the back, veiled from easy view by the long shapes of the supply wagons and by helpful sheets of shielding canvas and oilcloth. Once the tents were up, most townies wouldn’t even realize that something was being hidden from them. Misdirection was the watchword.

  The tents were being assembled, spread out over what would be their footprints. They were placed behind the show wagons, creating a layer cake of attractions. Annie Pearl’s oddities were positioned near the tents, along with her freaks; it wouldn’t do to force good, honest people to look at them if they didn’t want to. It was like watching a nest of ants going about their business. Martin paused on the road, smiling. His people were going to be all right. They would survive this winter the way they always did, and come out the other side ready for a new year of good things and good shows and new chances to see the world.

  He slid down the second cutout trail, and a third after that, hitting the ground outside town and starting toward the show. He stopped as three townie men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, stepping between him and the ring of wagons.

  “What’ve you got there, boy?” asked one of them.

  Martin frowned. “I’m not your boy,” he said. “I have to get back to the circus. Excuse me, please.” There: that was polite enough. No way Mr. Blackstone could say he’d been picking fights with the townies. He’d left that habit behind him when he’d started stepping out with Sophia, who needed him intact and capable of taking care of her, not spitting teeth and resting in the hospital wagon.

  “Looks to me like you’ve been hunting,” said another of the men.

  “Sure seems to be a deer he’s carrying,” said the third.

  Martin looked around the circle of men, frowning. “Mr. Blackstone spoke to your mayor before he told me to go find dinner,” he said. “If you have a problem, take it up with him.” He didn’t kno
w for sure that Mr. Blackstone had gotten permission for him to hunt, but that was another matter. He hadn’t been told to be discreet about what he was doing, or anything that would have made him pick a less direct route back to the show. As far as he could see, the deer in these woods were anyone’s for the taking.

  “We don’t care for strangers hunting in our woods,” said the first man.

  Martin’s frown deepened. “I can’t see how anybody could say they owned those woods,” he said. “They didn’t feel owned to me. They felt wild.” Wild, and angry about the intrusion past their borders.

  “There’s an easy way to settle this,” said the third man. He was suddenly smiling. Martin didn’t think there was any way that could be a good thing. “Since you clearly know your way around a rifle, how about you just give us that buck as payment for hunting in our woods, and you go get yourself another one? We promise to let you pass.”

  “No, thank you,” said Martin doggedly. “I promised Mr. Blackstone I’d come back with a deer, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got to help with setup. How about you go and get your own deer, if it’s that simple?”

  “Boy, I don’t think you understand how much trouble you’re making for yourself,” said the first man. All three of them took a step forward, shrinking the circle around Martin.

  He swallowed hard. Was a deer really worth the beating he was about to receive? At the end of it, he’d have wounds to tend and no deer, and worse, they could find themselves run out of town for fighting. Townies were always eager to believe that their people had been innocent lambs assaulted by some wandering wolf, rather than admitting that sometimes the wolves were inside the gate. If he stood his ground, he could endanger the entire circus.