XIII
The sun was almost dead, hanging just below the horizon. The troupe was in the final passage of their prayer, now holding hands in small circles, and spinning around, and around, and around. They twisted and turned until their heads were so light and swimming that their thoughts lifted and floated away, like the tufted fruit of a dandelion.
“Though The Sun is gone,” said Gaia, “we still see. Thus, Light has never truly left us, for it is still in all things. The Sun has died so that we may rest and recuperate. The Sun had died, and he continues to die so that he may be reborn, time and time again. The Sun is time. His death and rebirth are our recurrences. And thus we live each day, inside of his sacrifice so that we too may die each night when we close our eyes, and be reborn again in the morning. It is because of Light that we live, each time that we die. Praised be The Sun of Light,”
“Aymen,” said the troupe.
“Praised be Father Light,”
“Aymen.”
“Praised be you, to you unto yourselves, and to all unto me, for we are the carriers of Light.”
“Aymen.”
“Praised be oh Light.”
“Aymen.”
The troupe lined up one behind the other, and they arranged themselves, from smallest to tallest, and from many-legged to coupled, singled and stumped; and from bare faced to bearded. There was an order to their difference and each knew just right where they belonged.
“The body of Light,” said Gaia, holding a small battery in her two hands.
“Aymen,” said The Three Legged Midget, licking the end of the battery, his face shrivelling with the sting.
One by one, the each took their turn, ending their prayer with their hands pressed against their hearts, leaning forwards gently and licking the end of a nine-volt battery. And when they were done, they quickly made their way to their carriages and tents to prepare themselves, for any moment, there would be a show.
The Young Cripple dreaded the sting of prayer. She was always last in line, but not because of her disability, and most certainly not because of her lineage, but because it was where she would rather be, aside from all the pushing and shoving, aside from all the fuss. And there was the odd chance too that by the time it came to her, the battery would be all but used up, and the shock and sting would be no worse than licking an ice cube, or the edge of an envelope.
When it was her turn, she scrunched her face.
“The body of Light,” said Gaia.
The Young Cripple edged forwards with her tongue out, but for every inch forwards, her tongue edged backward an inch or two more, until she nearly swallowed it whole.
“My child,” said Gaia. “You need not be afraid. I know that fear swims inside of you. I can feel it. I can see it in your eyes. Your aura…” she said, stroking the child’s cheek. “It reeks of cowardice. And your Light… it tremors. It cannot fix on any one thing.”
Gaia kneeled down to the height of the girl, looking her long in the eyes.
“Know this, and do not ever forget,” she said.
The Young Crippled nodded.
“It is written in the stars….”
The Young Cripple’s eyes widened with wonder and glee.
“You will fail,” said Gaia, kissing the girl’s cheek, before returning to her feet. “The body of Light,” she said, smiling and leaning over once more, placing the battery before the girl’s stupid expression.
“Aymen,” said The Young Cripple, scrunching her face once more, and quickly licking the battery’s end.
The words echoed in the girl’s mind. She thought about her performance, about everything she had practiced. She knew the story she had to tell inside and out. It was simple to remember, just as it was to write. The Young Cripple loved to write, but she hated simple things, and it pained her, as much as it did licking the ends of that battery every night, thinking about having to tell this story; this plain and simple story, especially when there were an infinite number of richer and more fantastic tales and adventures for her to think of, to make up, to write, and to tell.
But there was only one story that mattered; that of Light.
“Girl,” said Rex, standing above The Young Cripple.
The girl looked up, craning her neck until her head almost flipped off.
“Have you seen the whore?”
“Which?”
“The first,” said Rex, refusing to acknowledge her name.
“Delilah?”
Rex huffed, sounding like an overworked draft horse.
“Like I said, the bitch.”
“In her carriage, preparing for the show,” said The Young Cripple.
“Master requires her for a task.”
“Can I help?”
“There is very little, of efficiency, that you can actually do little girl.”
Rex thought of his master. The word ‘whatever’ rang his mind, along with the apathy he had for both the crippled child and the conniving and bickering whore, both of whom caused his master so much distress, and undeserved pain and suffering.
“There is a boy.”
“A boy?” said The Young Cripple ecstatic.
“Yes, a boy.”
“But a boy boy,” said The Young Cripple, cutting him off. “Young, like me? A boy boy?”
“Yes,” said Rex, unimpressed. “A boy boy. Master has requested he be healed. Either by yourself or the whore, whichever. There is very little you can do to mess this up so, you do it. Get your things. The boy is nursing the sick woman. You’re to heal the boy and then be ready backstage, before the alligator act. Understood?”
The Young Cripple would have said to anything right now.
A boy.
An actual boy.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “Of course. Alligator. Backstage.”
“Don’t mess this up,” said Rex.
“I won’t,” said The Young Cripple. “I’ll just get my things.”
“Follow the smoke,” he said.
The girl hobbled off through the encampment. She’d never met another child before. She’d imagined a million times what it would be like, having someone to play with, someone as young as herself, and someone who wasn’t always telling her to grow up and stop kidding around. She had invented a thousand boys in a thousand stories that she told in her head, a thousand times. Never, though, did she ever think that she would meet a real one, not outside of her imagination.
She made her way to Delilah’s carriage and knocked politely on the door. The instruments used to heal were still inside the bearded whore’s bag. The Young Cripple waited for a second or two, but her bent and twisted legs shook nervously inside of her metal braces, and her hands were already twisting the door handle. She couldn’t hold back her excitement. She couldn’t wait any longer.
“Anyone here?” she asked.
She knew that if there was, she would have had a fist or a hot stoker sticking in her face right now. Delilah was a mean bitch, and half the scars on The Young Cripple’s back and arms were from her, and her bad temper. So she snuck into the whore’s carriage, wrought with fear, sneaking the door open inch by inch. And by the time it was wide open, she was already inside, rummaging through Delilah’s things.
She took the healing device from her bag and left it on the floor. Then she scourged further through papers and ribbons and intimate apparel, everything that Delilah stuffed into her leather satchel. Her nerves were getting the most of her. Delilah would be back any second, and if she knew the girl were going through her things, she would kill her. But The Young Cripple couldn’t resist - a real life, actual boy.
She rummaged and rummaged some more, hearing the sound of sniping and complaining coming through the encampment. Delilah was on her way. She was abusing the other whores and ridiculing their choices of corsets and eyeliners. But her voice was getting louder.
And now, it was almost at the carriage door.
“Got it,” said The Young Cripple, finding the crumpled story from the bottom of the bag,
and tucking it inside her shirt.
Delilah burst through the door and rushed to her mirror, frantically pushing aside the thick bristles of her beard. She breathed fast and heavy, like an impala, at the end of an exhausted chase. And her desperate nails, clutching at the hairs on her beard, were like the gnashing of a Leopard’s teeth.
“Where is it? Where is it?” she cursed, checking hair by hair, oblivious to the girl sneaking past her dresser and hobbling out her door. “Where are you?” she said.
And then she found it.
A grey hair.
One lone, grey hair.
The whore screamed, loud and convincing. “Motherfucker!”
The Young Cripple quickly hobbled through the encampment, following the puffs of smoke as Rex had said until she came to a clearing where there the early evening air was warmed by a crackling fire, and beside it lay a dying woman, convulsing and shivering.
And beside her sat a young boy.
A real, live boy.