Walking to the center of the stage, he addressed the audience (now down to five; the two teenagers had run off in a fit of hysterical laughter after the disappearance of the squirrels) in an ostentatious voice: “Ladees. And zhe gentlesmen. I preesent you: Esben the Great.”
Curtis grabbed Prue’s hand in anticipation.
The red tent flaps were thrown open, and in sauntered a very large black bear. He walked on all fours, as bears do, but not without some difficulty. It wasn’t until he’d reached the center of the stage and stood, dramatically, to full height that Prue and Curtis saw why: In the place of his front paws were two golden hooks.
Curtis gasped; Prue let out a little cry. The man with the bag of peanuts turned around and shushed them.
“Esben weeel now show to yooo, his power of amazeeementt!” announced the ringleader as he rolled a ball toward the standing bear. Esben dutifully climbed onto the ball and proceeded to wheel around the stage, balanced precariously on his hind paws. The ringleader did little to direct this activity; Esben seemed to be fully in control of the performance himself. He leapt from the ball at the ringleader’s shout and the audience, Prue and Curtis and the two adults, applauded loudly. Prue was still in shock from this sudden reversal in her expectations. They’d been looking for a man; of course he was an animal. The moles were blind and, Prue reasoned, apparently unaware of the distinctions between different species of Overdwellers. They had clearly not seen the importance of parsing out what sort of Overdweller he was.
A few passing carnival attendees had heard the applause; several more people had filed into the tent to watch the display. The bear, with some help from the ringleader, had managed to balance a wide tin plate on his left hook. With his other prosthetic paw, he was spinning it as it teetered on the curve of the golden hook. The ringleader, with a flourish, presented Esben with a metal dowel, which he placed on top of the spinning plate; another plate was put on the dowel’s end and it, too, was set to spinning. The growing crowd hooted their approval.
“Pretty good,” noted Septimus quietly.
The show went on like this, with Esben managing a series of incredible feats in an all-too-sentient way, as if he contained an intelligence uncommon among his species. While the audience crowed and shouted their amazement at the sight, however, Prue and Curtis watched the bear perform with a knowing recognition. He was a Woodian, all right. No doubt about it.
The show ended with an incredible sequence of death-defying stunt work from the bear, featuring a stack of overturned chairs, balanced one on top of the other; a fiery hoop; and a wire that extended from the ceiling of the tent to the ground. Climbing the chairs, Esben fixed his hooks to the wire and slid at a breathtaking speed down from the ceiling to emerge, safely, on the other side of the flaming hoop, to the spectacular shouts of the now half-filled house. The success of the routine allowed the audience to forgive the ringleader his previous failures; Esben had saved the show. The cast bowed to raucous applause—even Esben, much to the crowd’s delight—before turning and jogging back through the tent flaps in the rear. The overhead lights came on; the ticket taker appeared and began to usher people from the tent.
They knew what they needed to do next.
The same man was idling by the gate that led to the backstage area. He saw the two kids with the pet rat approach and smiled. His front teeth were knobby little stumps.
“Well, if it ain’t the two bear cubs, come to see their ol’ dad.”
Curtis scowled. “We’re just really big fans.”
“Will you let us go back and see him?” asked Prue, trying on her persuasive charm.
“They’re packin’ up,” said the man. “Off to Pendleton. Or some such place. They ain’t got time to chat with fans right now.”
Prue, despite herself, said aloud, “He can’t go!”
“It’s really important that we see him,” said Curtis, becoming very impatient. “It’s a life-or-death situation.”
“Lemme get this straight,” said the man, eyeing his fingernails casually. “You need to see a bear. A circus bear. Because it’s a life-or-death situation.”
“It’s a long story,” added Prue. “But, yes.”
“Please?” pleaded Curtis.
The man looked at them both, his eyes moving from one to the other. The tired and slack look on his face had been replaced by one of bewildered pity. “No,” he said finally.
They walked away, despondent. The sounds of the carnival were dying away into the frigid night air as the barkers and the vendors closed up their stalls. A few raindrops had begun to fall. They landed noisily on the muddy, melting clumps of snow that still lay here and there among the dirt and tire ruts of the circus grounds. A few men could be heard shouting terse directions from within the big top tent. In a matter of moments, the peak of the tent tilted sideways, and the big top began to droop like a deflated balloon. A gaggle of riggers, greasy with sweat, attended to its disassembly, swearing and spitting with equal profusion. Prue threw her hood over her head and frowned.
“The whole thing, it’s doomed,” she mourned. “We’re going to lose one of the makers.” She was following Curtis, her face downcast, as he walked the length of the fence. She almost ran into his back when he suddenly stopped.
“Wait,” he said. “Where’s Septimus?”
The rat had been at his shoulder the entire evening; only now did he notice that Septimus’s ever-present claws were no longer gripping to his coat.
A scream alerted them to his presence. Looking over, they saw the backstage guard they’d just been speaking to give out a quaking holler and begin dancing across the sandy ground like a puppet under the control of a caffeine-riddled handler. Curtis recognized the dance instantly: the top-hatted Henry had cut identical steps, the week before, in his escape from the captured stagecoach.
“There he is,” said Curtis.
By the time they’d returned to the backstage entrance, the man was gone, having loped, screaming, all the way to the men’s bathroom to try and remove whatever demonic ferret had snuck into his mackintosh. The way was wide open. Curtis gave a surveying glance at their surroundings before ushering Prue through the unguarded gate.
“Thank you, Septimus,” she whispered.
A city of cages and crates made a kind of maze in the backstage area, all awash with the movement of frenzied crew members in black coveralls and work boots, tearing down and packing up the show’s gear. So frenzied, in fact, that the activities of two twelve-year-olds in their midst never warranted a second glance.
They walked with a deliberate confidence, assuming that two kids crouching low and tiptoeing were more likely to be detected. The twin cages of the obstinate monkeys let them know they were nearing the animal pens. Turning a corner by a wooden-slatted crate holding a flock of jabbering peacocks, they saw, standing alone, a black metal cage with the word ESBEN written on a placard above the bars.
Arriving there, they peered into the cage. It was completely dark.
“Esben?” whispered Prue. She was mindful to not get caught trying to talk to a circus bear. Not only would that likely get them kicked out, but they ran the risk of being committed to some loony bin too.
Curtis elbowed her ribs and pointed into the back of the cage. There, in the darkness, two small eyes caught the light of the backstage floodlights. Glowing yellow, they stared straight ahead at the two kids. A small movement of the bear’s arms created a glitter of reflection from his two hook prosthetics.
Prue shared a quick look with Curtis before turning back to the figure in the dark. “We know who you are. We know that you’re one of the makers that the Governess hired to make Alexei. We know that you were exiled to the underground; it’s super important that you come with us.”
The bear, for his part, said nothing. The blackness of his fur camouflaged him to the dark. It was as if the shine of his eyes and the glint of his hooks hovered in the shadows in the back of the cage.
Curtis stepped in. “Lon
g story short, Esben: We need you to come with us. We can get you back to South Wood. The Governess is long gone; we were there when she—” He hesitated before saying that she’d died—it hadn’t exactly been the case. “Disappeared,” was the word he decided on.
Still, the bear was silent.
“Why won’t you talk to us?” asked Prue, feeling increasingly desperate. Some of the crates and cages behind them were being loaded onto awaiting flatbed trucks; a train could be heard in the distance, idling its engine. “We know you can talk. We know you’re from the Wood.”
Curtis tried flattery. “Nice work in there, by the way. Really impressive stuff. I think you’ve made the most of your, you know …” Again he paused, searching for the right word. “Disability.”
The glowing eyes shifted to stare at Curtis; he thought he could read a growing anger in them. The bear’s breathing had become more rapid. Curtis looked over at Prue to see that she was shooting him a disapproving look.
She cleared her throat. “We need you to come with us. We need you to come back to South Wood.”
The bear let out a low growl. It seemed to issue from some deep part of his gut. His refusal to talk was disturbing to Curtis; for a moment he considered the possibility that they had the wrong guy, that the two hooks were only a coincidence. Maybe they were really just talking to a normal bear.
Prue continued, “Listen. We know that you were treated terribly. Believe us, we know what a horrible woman the Governess was. But she was crazy. She thought that what she was doing was best for the country. And maybe she was right. I’m from the Outside, but I’m half-blood. The Council Tree of North Wood has spoken to me; it’s told me that in order to save the Wood, I need to find you and the other maker. We need your help. Desperately.”
“You need to reanimate Alexei, the mechanical boy prince,” interjected Curtis. He spoke with an urgency pushed along by the milling crew members, who would, no doubt, discover them momentarily.
With an explosive ferocity, the bear erupted into motion, throwing himself against the bars of the cage. He let out an enormous roar that flattened the hair on Curtis’s head and caused Prue to let out a scream. They both fell back into the mud, their faces wet with the bear’s spittle. A commotion arose from the workers behind them; they were alerted to the bear’s anger and began running in the direction of the cage.
Curtis, at a loss for words, did something impulsive. As he watched the bear retreat back into the shadows, the air echoing with the shouts of the circus crew, he reached for the medal at his chest. It was the one that he’d been given by the moles, the one with the man giving the thumbs-up. The one that said ZEKE on the bottom. Pulling it from his chest, he stood up and set it between the bars of the cage and slid it toward the bear. Just as he’d done so, the men from the circus were upon them.
“What’re you kids doin’ back here?” one shouted.
“Who let you in?” yelled another.
The voice of the security guard, the one who’d been a victim of Septimus’s gambit, rose above the rest. “Those are them kids! They musta snuck back!”
Within seconds, the rough hands of the workers were on their shoulders, and the two of them, Prue and Curtis, were being marched toward the gate. Prue gave a quick look over her shoulder and watched as Esben’s cage receded into the distance. Before she and Curtis were rudely thrown through the gate of the fence and her line of vision was cut off completely, she saw a crew of men begin pushing the cage toward an awaiting freight car.
The sound of scurrying alerted them to Septimus’s arrival. He leapt onto Curtis’ shoulder, and once he was sure there were no Outsiders in earshot, he whispered to the two children, “What happened? Where’s Esben?”
“He won’t come,” said Curtis.
“What?”
“That’s it,” said Prue. “He won’t even speak to us.”
“After all that?” hissed the rat. “I had to brave that guy’s hairy back for nothing? Ungrateful bear.”
The train gave a somber whistle; the three of them—the boy, the girl and the rat—made their way despondently back toward the heap of rubbish.
CHAPTER 23
Out of the Periphery; Unthank’s Unwanted Visitors
If you’d been there to see it, you might not have believed your eyes. The placid line of trees, the lingering snow, the half-light of the coming evening. And then you might’ve seen a kid, no older than fourteen, with long, straight black hair and wearing both a uniform coverall and a focused expression, break through the trees. Her hand would be extended back, as if holding on to something from within the tree line. In a short time you would see that her hand was in fact holding on to another hand, this one of a young boy who gaped at the dim sunlight beyond the trees’ veil like an animal emerging from its burrow.
Soon, more followed; a succession of children appeared from the woods. In the midst of the chain was an old, hobbled man who relied on the guidance of the children to show the way. After what might seem like an eternity, the last child emerged, this one only holding the leash of a small black pug. The girl’s name was Elsie, and she’d returned to the Outside after what seemed like an eternity.
They all stood silently, blinking at the panorama before them: the weaving clusters of piping and conduit, the towering smokestacks, the clattering thrum of the Industrial Wastes. The twin spires of the railroad bridge could be seen some distance down the river’s gorge. On the other side, they reckoned, was freedom. But first, they would have to cross the Wastes. With renewed energy, they began moving in that direction.
They traversed the margin between the chemical-tank-strewn flats and the wild, hilly green of the woods. This margin, a small patch of dirty grass, was wide enough to accommodate them in a line. They said nothing as they walked; Carol wore a wide, beaming smile the whole way. The bridge hove closer in their vision.
No sooner had they crossed over into the Wastes, the Railroad Bridge within reach, some of them still holding the hands of their neighbors, when a single figure appeared from behind a low, broken smokestack. He wore an argyle sweater and a goatee. He positioned himself between them and the tracks of the bridge.
“Hello there,” said Unthank. “Welcome back.”
The huddle of kids froze and gave a collective gasp of surprise.
Unthank guessed at the reason for their shock. He batted his earlobe; the kids felt at the yellow tags pinned to their ears. “As soon as you stepped out of there, I had you. You’re all tagged. GPS locators. Simple stuff, really.”
Rachel stood defiantly. “Out of our way, creep,” she said. The kids behind her murmured approval. They were thirty-eight strong. Here, beyond the structure and confines of the machine shop, their resistance was unstoppable. The man had no control of them here.
“I’d expected you’d be a little more thankful,” answered Joffrey. “At least one of my little concoctions seems to have done the job. I don’t know how you did it, but I expect to find that out in short time. And, you should know, I’m a man of my word. Wealth, freedom. It’s all yours. Just tell me which of you managed to get out first.”
“No deal,” said the girl behind Rachel. It was Martha Song. Unthank recognized her by her ever-present goggles. “We’re not going to be your slaves anymore.”
Unthank moved his lips into a smile. His body was framed by the exterior of the Unthank Home in the distance; faces could be seen at the windows, the faces of children, who were watching the proceeding standoff. “Come on,” he said. “Where are you gonna go?”
The children didn’t answer; the wind swayed the tall trees behind them.
“That’s right,” said Joffrey. “Nowhere. Now let’s all forget our little squabbles and get back to the Home. Once we’re there, I can take you each individually and see what sort of effect—”
“We said, we’re not going,” said Martha Song. “And you can either stand there and get pounded by a bunch of angry orphans or you can get out of the way.”
Before
Unthank had a chance to respond, two more men had appeared from the direction of the building. They looked as if they’d traveled from two distinctly different eras. One, athletic and broad-shouldered in a tight-fitting suit, wore the demeanor of the modern age; the other, wisp-thin, looked as if he’d fallen from some distant corner of the nineteenth century. The latter adjusted the little spectacles on his nose as he approached.
“What’s going on here, Joffrey?” asked the larger one.
“My Unadoptables, Mr. Wigman,” he said, not taking his eyes off the children. “They’ve made it out. Somehow.” He repeated the last word again, this time more quietly. “Somehow.”
Wigman seemed to study the children carefully, assessing the implications. It gave Elsie a moment to consider just how ridiculous they must look, all huddled around an old man with wooden eyes, all wearing identical dirty jumpsuits and yellow tagged earrings. She thought she saw some glimmer of charity appear on the man’s face, some recognition of Unthank’s endeavors having gotten out of hand.
“This is pointless, Joffrey,” he said finally. The wind whipped at his tie; his perfectly molded hair seemed to ruffle slightly. “Let the kids go.” Here he looked for backing from the man at his side, who’d been craning his head forward and adjusting his glasses all the while. He seemed to be taken by a certain figure in the group.
“Carol Grod!” the man shouted.
The old blind man perked up his ears. A scowl came over his face.
Both Unthank and Wigman turned and stared at Roger. “That’s—him?” stammered Unthank.
Elsie looked up at Carol, analyzing the grim look on his face. “Who is that?” she asked, referring to this strangely dressed man.
“Roger Swindon, as I live and breathe,” said Carol defiantly. “Children, meet the man who carried out the orders to have my eyes taken from me.”
Roger seemed unfazed by the accusation. “That’s the past, Carol. No sense in reliving old hardships.”
“I’m not relivin them, Roger,” replied Carol. “I live with ’em every day.”