Cerrina
Marvelous Wonders! Wondrous Marvels!
Sirenic birdsong of seldom spoken words!
Oh, it was music to my ears. Upon stepping off the trolley onto the warped wooden planks, one was privy to find their senses overwhelmed as they entered a world of clattering claptraps and salt-tinged miasma.
The sights! The smells! The aura of unmitigated wonder beneath a starry canvas of amber lights strung on slack wires!
I suppose I could see how some might perceive Luna Pier as a gaudy and garish midway populated by carnival barkers, each as grease laden as the plump frankfurters emerging beneath candy-striped canvas stalls. But then, I often saw things differently than most. Some might in fact say that I have The Sight. If you promise to keep it between us, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Oh, I cannot do it. I apologize for leading you on, but a showman simply cannot divulge their tricks of the trade so early on in our adventure.
Let us proceed, shall we?
A voice echoed across the pungent primrose path that lay before me. I glanced toward the red and yellow striped awning bedecked with a hand painted sign that I elected not to read. Some mysteries are better left to the whims of anticipation until they reveal themselves in full, operatic splendor. I chose to embrace this aura of the unknown.
I thanked the gaslight gods for the overcast day, and pulled my veil tighter across my face to hide it from view. All will be revealed in time. Patience please, ladies and gentlemen. Let us see what awaits within this haughty hippodrome.
I paid my pittance in a small honor system box at the entrance and entered. I was not impressed. The floor of the tent was coated in sawdust that stuck to my shoes in an unpleasant fashion. A family of three accompanied me as the only other patrons, and the parents and small boy did not seem to pay much heed to the detritus on the floor. They were more entranced by the garish displays of tomfoolery set upon the small wooden platforms lining the interior. The displays created a path to funnel guests forward into a small antechamber at the end of the tent, currently blocked off from view by a large yellow length of canvas.
Before my bleary eyes lie the “Indonesian Fish-man.” The mother withdrew in horror, but the young boy pressed forward, a salubrious spark of enchantment dancing in his eyes. Quite obviously, the taxidermized fiend presented was simply the mummified remains of an unfortunate simian hastily attached to the lower fins of a large game fish. Marvelous Wonders, indeed. Even the “Mighty Hodag” was naught more than another fanciful mockup of chimeric chicanery.
The next attempt to draw gasps of astonishment from the rubes was admittedly more interesting. It was another static display of what I suspected was a mannequin likely spirited away from a department store without consent. The man-sized figure’s maw was pressed into a chitinous beak shape and frozen in a shriek of unbridled aggression. Greasy black feathers covered the shape like a downy decoupage, giving it the appearance of a hybrid that would only exist in the works of H.G. Wells.
The boy pressed forward at the behest of his mother, but the child’s father, an unnaturally tall man, held up a reassuring hand. I tried my hardest to stifle a light chuckle as the feathery beast suddenly burst forward with a mediocre bellow. It was good enough to startle the child, who tumbled backward into the sawdust, coating his Sunday best in refuse.
A man in a red velvet jacket stepped out from behind the mannequin beast with a bright smile. I immediately detected the pain behind the wide, imperfect grin and the intrigue was quite palpable.
He spoke in a soft voice from behind golden capped teeth, his narrow mustachioed face beneath dark eyes, auburn hair, and a tilted red cap. “Young man, you mustn’t touch The Jackdaw. He’s been known to…bite.” The man flashed his golden grin and chomped with all the theatricality of a trained showman.
The family remained silent, gazing back with widened eyes, undoubtedly wondering what they had gotten themselves into. The showman cast a quick gaze over his paltry parade of patrons and I smirked underneath my veil at the lingering gaze upon my form.
”I trust you all are here today to witness the most Wondrous Marvels to take place upon this Miracle Row. Surely you did not purchase a ticket to simply gaze at my wunderkammen of curiosities. Surely you have braved the unknown, set foot upon mysterious roads toward the most Marvelous Wonder your eyes ever did witness!” He suddenly coughed violently at the end of his histrionic hullabaloo and was greeted with silence. “Well?”
The family murmured their assent and I offered a kind nod. He stole one more glimpse toward me and I shifted in the sawdust. I shall let both our theatrical ringmaster and yourself decide whether it was a subtle motion of discomfort or intrigue. He grinned again, yet I detected the hint of confusion lurking within his youthful visage. Nevertheless, he led us toward the antechamber, and pulled back the yellow tarp with a grand flourish and self-composed musical accompaniment.
“Da-daa-da! I present to your wondering and most curious hearts, the unbridled spectacle of Admiral Admirari’s Flea Circus Extraordinaire!”
A flea circus? I stifled a derisive sigh. Flea circuses were the apex of apathy, gilded gadgets and tiny mechanical trinkets glittering in the waste of their own self-satisfaction, powered by magnets and self-assured smirks that robbed patrons (“marks” more like) of their well-earned cash. Granted, I could not be one to speak against the fleecing facetiousness, but at least my act had some semblance of decorum.
“Come closer,” the man beckoned. “All of—well, just you.”
I glanced about and noticed the family had left, undoubtedly scrambling out of the tent with promises of nightmares and emptied wallets to boot. As the sole remaining patron, I took it upon myself to humor the chap, and I discovered with glee that his show was not in fact all illusions and misdirection.
The setup was simple. Tiny cars, cannons, trapeze towers, and even musical instruments crafted out of polished brass, awash in tiny switches and dials that human hands could not possibly hope to operate. Yet, they were all in motion and being operated by honest-to-Barnum minuscule creatures. The contraptions whirred and whizzed and sounded musically in the small chamber as the showman looked on proudly.
“You could get a better look, my dear, if you remove that stylish veil from your undoubtedly lovely eyes,” he said.
“I can see just fine from here,” I replied, ignoring his silver tongue and golden grin. “This is fascinating. Real creatures.”
“You sound as though you expected otherwise. Come, see what Wonders my little friends can perform.” He swept an arm closer to the display with a flourish. He stifled a cough, and I noted a tattoo on the back of his right hand: a pocket watch design as golden as his teeth, with an equally opulent chain trailing up his forearm. Prompted by some surely arcane emotion, I rubbed at the back of my own right hand, currently obscured by my long, black-sleeved blouse.
“They’re all right here. In the flesh. Or the carapace, I suppose. My friends, my performers. My family,” he said. His voice trailed off almost wistfully, and I lifted my eyes to meet his from beneath my veil.
“Your stage name is intricate,” I confessed. “What do they call you when the lights are out and the curtains close?”
The young man glanced behind me to make sure there were no patrons in earshot. He removed his cap with a chivalrous bow, and I noted the quiver in his step. “Marcus Boverick, at your service, Miss—”
He trailed off again, obviously prompting me to reveal my own moniker. I ignored this and said, “Ironically, it is a service that I have come to offer, Mr. Boverick. I can respect one showman, but I was unimpressed with your show until I saw…this. I was unaware that fleas could be trained.”
“If you treat them right and provide for them. One could only imagine what they are capable of.”
“One could only imagine,” I repeated. “Your imaginarium has potential, sir. I myself happen to be adept at igniting the imagination of the most seasoned mark.” He bristled at this terminology, undoubtedly a man of honor who likely performed his show for the love of the craft, and not simply to fleece the rubes. “Oh, Admirable Admiral, I think we could help freshen up your show.” I tapped a black lacquered nail to my shrouded temple. “Think about it.”
“But, my dear, what are these gifts you claim to possess?” He coughed again.
I lifted my veil ever so slightly to offer one patented mysterious smile and no further response. I made sure to swirl my skirt in a theatrical fashion as I swept out of the showplace, leaving a perplexed ringmaster and his homunculi handymen to ponder my very presence.
One could only imagine…
Marcus
Marcus Boverick was well-versed on being the one to invoke curiosity and confusion in others. He was not accustomed to finding the roles reversed. After the quiet family and mysterious woman in the black veil had left, he played host to only a few more pockets of patrons. The show was starting to stagnate, and he would need new attractions soon. It was part of what had made the woman’s offer so enticing. He fully expected her to return and when she did, he vowed to extract more information and uncover her motives.
The sun had set over Luna Pier’s Miracle Row. The midway games, the majestic Wonder Wheel, the rickety Luna Dipper roller coaster and the snack stands had all closed for the night. Marcus had more important matters to attend to during these twilight hours. He held his bare arm out to the flea circus, allowed his tiny partners to climb up, and stole to the back. There, he removed one more flap of canvas that led directly into his trailer.
Wordlessly, Marcus removed his cap and red jacket that he wore during showtime. He moved through a tin door shut off from the rest of the trailer, and sat himself in a reclining barber chair. He affixed one end of a clear plastic tube into a small glass jar and peeled back the pre-incised flesh of his forearm. The Fleas jumped in elation and swiftly marched up his arm, tucking themselves neatly beneath his skin as he affixed the other end of the hose to his exposed muscle. He folded the flap of flesh back over his partners, and allowed them to nourish themselves.
His flesh began to undulate, squirm, and shift. The golden chain tattoo swirled with the tiny forms shuffling around beneath. Within moments, the essence began to flow from the tube and into the empty jar. The golden liquid pooled forth, gleaming brightly beneath the single bare bulb that illuminated his workshop. Marcus closed his eyes as the Fleas did their work.
Then: fire, searing heat, and smoke ravaged screams. Sights he had imagined everyday within his mind. He remembered years spent after the fire, setting up shop to continue a lost legacy. He remembered the loose plank of wood under the boardwalk and the glowing, squirming beings that lived beneath. They had wasted no time leaping and clinging to his form. He could only imagine how long they had been there, but held no knowledge of what they truly were or if more of their kind existed. They had bitten swiftly, but did not take. Instead, the Fleas had given him Wonderous Marvels and Marvelous Wonders, truths unknown but now seen through the prismatic compound eyes of beings that were not meant to be in collusion with man.
He cried in his chair as the Fleas went to work. A bond had been established without words. A partnership, the discovery of something that lurked beyond science, yet dwelled deep within every living being. He called the luminous gold liquid flowing in his veins the “Oil,” a fitting term from a dedicated snake oil salesman such as himself.
He thought about the exhibits on display in the main tent and the actions he had taken to acquire them. Actions he would have never committed without the Fleas insisting he do so. A show can only go on for so long before it grows tiresome. It was in his best interest to provide a good show, to keep the Boverick name on the lips of any respected entertainer. To endure his legacy. But he often wondered if his father, long lost to the flames, would really want his legacy tarnished in Oil and blood. Red upon gold, death unto legacy.
These were the tortured thoughts of Marcus Boverick, interrupted suddenly by an unfamiliar voice echoing from beyond his trailer. He sat up with a sniff, wiped his face, and removed the tubing from his arm. The Fleas crept out as he smoothed the flesh back, and he assured them he would make it up to them soon. Marcus stumbled out of his trailer, waiting in the doorway as he peeled back the strap of canvas that separated his mobile home from the antechamber.
A tall man was skulking about, peering at the cloth covered exhibits, reaching out with a gloved hand into the gloom and peering behind the curtains. Marcus cleared his throat loudly and the man turned to him, pointing at the showman with a swift, accusatory motion.
“My boy will not eat because of your flimflam show,” the tall man snarled. He pressed closer. Marcus could smell the sour scent of cheap whiskey on his breath, and recognized one of the patrons from earlier in the day. “My wife is upset that we ever brought him here. I demand a—”
“No refunds, sir,” Marcus cut in with a weary sigh.
“Excuse me?”
“My show is meant to shock and amuse. Emphasis on amusement, but there are times that the hideous appearance of my displays obscures all other emotions. I am…sorry that your boy did not appreciate the Marvels in my collection.”
“He did not. My wife did not. She did not appreciate wasting our Sunday outing on this collection of claptraps. Give me my money back or I will go to the authorities.”
“I assure you, sir, I have a license from the city. All is in order.” Marcus took a moment to size up the angry father. Tall, slender. Interesting.
The man raised his gloved hand to his chin and seemed to think for a moment. “What if I burn it to the ground? Surely you cannot be financially stable. You have read the papers, no doubt. You have seen the bread lines forming and the stocks plunging. Surely you have insured your collection and are…growing desperate. A suspicious fire, indeed.”
Marcus smirked and rubbed at his tattoo. “A threat, is it?”
The man shrugged. “A business proposition.” He pulled a silver lighter out of his pocket, clicked on the flame, and pressed it close to Marcus. He recoiled from the heat, a flicker of fear piercing his dark eyes. Flames, screams, burning canvas, and smoke-filled lungs. He coughed involuntarily and the tall man shrunk back.
“Let us…discuss this like gentlemen,” Marcus said. He beckoned with genial theatricality for the man to enter his chambers beyond the pied canvas.
It did not take long. Marcus had always kept the plank of wood in his workshop, the same sturdy chunk that had brought the Fleas to him. It still evoked a sense of eldritch power. Something from a world he did not understand—a hideaway for unknown travelers likely moving from locale to locale and seeking to impart their Wonders on the populace. To both take and give. They were so like him, and that is why Marcus believed they imbued their gifts upon him, and also why he took the plank of wood to the back of the tall man’s head.
No words had been passed upon the tall man entering the trailer. Marcus had allowed him one brief glimpse at the setup and the jars of Oil, the sluicing essence imparted from his own willing body and others not so willing. He hated what he had become, but he knew better than to question the Fleas. There was only one method to reliably acquire new exhibits for the show.
After the man had fallen, Marcus picked up his limp body with a grunt, and slung him into the chair. He opened a singed tin toolbox filigreed with a tarnished brass “L.B.”—his father, Louis Boverick, Master of Ceremonies and the first Admiral—and promised himself that it was all for him, for the legacy of the Admiral Admirari name. From within, he removed a small switchblade and a tiny clasped pocket watch. He flicked both open and allowed the Fleas to exit the watch interior. They clambered onto the blade of the knife, a parade of exquisite acquisitions, a troupe extraordinaire. Then, Marcus Boverick lowered the blade to the tall man and began to cut.
All for the legacy, for the Marvelous Wonders and Wondrous Marvels within.
After all, the show must go on.
Cerrina
It was an interesting piece. A bit rudimentary if I was being perfectly honest, but the proportions were appropriately unsettling. I had returned the next day as promised, and bore witness to the great Admiral Admirari fastening his new “Incan Mummy” exhibit to a display space alongside the “Mighty Hodag.” The wizened form was tall, slender. Interesting. Stripped of flesh, save for a few tattered wrappings, and withered into what could scarcely pass for what was once allegedly a human being. More likely, another store mannequin procured from the scrapyard and dressed with fittings and shoddy makeup work.
“A collector’s piece, indeed.” I smirked.
Boverick turned toward me, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. With his sleeves rolled up, I had an uninhibited view of that fascinating piece of art on his forearm. The good Admiral coughed once, held up a hand to excuse himself, and stepped down off of the platform.
“My mysterious caller,” he said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Madame Cerrina always keeps her word.”
He flashed his golden grin. “Progress. So now that I know your name, Madame Cerrina, please inform a curious mind as to what services you could bring to our humble little show.”
I squinted, took a quick pass from behind my veil and went to work. “Humble, yes. You lack the conviction of a seasoned showman. You work hard but are uncertain of your show’s shelf life. I regret that your parent—father perchance—is not present to witness everything that you have established in his name. I should say though that—” I paused for dramatic effect and held a hand to my temple. Wait. Let the anticipation build. Continue. “He is most proud of what you have accomplished. He wishes to inform you that Madame Cerrina would be a boon to your operation and would bring in plenty of revenue as she communes with those long lost and past.”
He paused, blinked, and I caught sight of a single tear. I had not counted on that and it caught me off guard, ever so slightly. “You have, uh, The Sight, I see.”
I allowed a small smile to play from beneath the veil.
“Humbuggery,” he stated. “I can respect that. Misdirection and deceit. Fairly accurate as well.”
“Only fairly?”
He smirked back and gestured for me to follow him deeper into the show tent. I followed him to the back chamber with the flea circus set up and awaiting the day’s first batch of marks. I watched with interest as he withdrew a small pocket watch from his pocket, not unlike his tattooed arm. He flicked it open, and the performers crept out. The tiny black mites immediately took their positions. The Admiral bent low and whispered something to the creatures, surely more as a sign of show than anything else, for obviously they could not understand him.
In an attempt to add more flair to the show, he produced a harmonica and performed an irritatingly jaunty tune as the fleas set about their tasks. I smiled and clapped along with the music, abhorring myself for allowing the mirth to overtake my good sense, but acknowledging the value in such a performance.
“You see, most flea circuses are archaic,” he explained. “They either perform with automated contraptions that are too tiny for patrons to distinguish as simple mechanics, or the fleas are tortured with hot plates and glue traps. The poor things will do whatever they can to escape the discomfort, and it appears as though they are performing great feats of agility and talent.”
“But not these?” I asked.
“Not at all. I have the good fortune to possess the only truly legitimate performing fleas in the world. I can even train them to dance.” He broke into a little jig before me, and while I questioned his judgment in doing so, still, I laughed. He was charming in an eccentric way. I suspected that was why I took him up on his next offer to join him at the dance hall on the pier later that night to discuss our potential…partnership.
The Crystal Palace was a dirt-encrusted gem far removed from its opulent namesake. The dance hall was built of lacquered wood in a hexagonal shape with a peaked roof. It sat upon the pier itself and was a landmark in its heyday. However, due to the financial hardships that seemed to be gripping the populace, the hall had fallen into disrepair. It still pulled in a small batch of visitors, but nothing akin to its glittering, golden years of frolic. Our business meeting consisted of no dancing whatsoever, but we took it upon ourselves to retire to a bar built into the back wall. He procured a bottle of libations (and curiously enough, a light blue ice pop that he assured me was sea-salt flavor—which I declined) and sat upon the roughhewn benches built into the exterior side of the hall.
He wasted no time in bringing up my veil and questioned what I was attempting to hide. I decided if we were to become partners that he would uncover my scars sooner than later. I sighed and stared out across the water at the Miracle Row. On this misty night, the summer winds swept the haze inward to the midway, allowing the garish lights and the Wonder Wheel herself to sparkle like tainted gems against a dreary painted sky. It was beautiful in a damaged yet distinguished fashion. The fog grew thicker and I squinted to see the lights beyond the veil of mist.
“May I see?”
I blinked back to the here and now. Marcus was looking at me expectantly, his ice cream pop dripping down his hand and onto the warped wood below. I thought for only a moment and decided to show that which I had hidden from curious eyes.
I saw him make a vain attempt to stifle his gasp. Many would simply recoil in disgust. I grinned lightly through the scar tissue that I had grown accustomed to for so many years. Most were unwilling to afford any kindness regarding the damage the fire had cursed me with.
“Are you satisfied, Admiral?” I asked.
I glimpsed the flicker in his eyes, the subconscious touch of his inked hand to his own face, before I allowed him to touch mine. I should have noticed before. Without having to say a word, he knew. He knew exactly what had occurred, and I knew then and there that the pair of us were bound by a tragedy far too common to the performer ilk. Canvas and wood are easy to acquire, and they pair well with what the public expects of traveling freak shows and circus performances. But such assets were often harbingers of the errant spark, ready to ignite into a life destroying inferno. Flames to take lives, but also to imbue unforeseen passion.
“Your father?” I asked softly.
I saw him tremble, heard him cough involuntarily and smelled the salt of the ice pop as it dropped to the ground. He nodded. I held his hand closer to my face, knowing we had many secrets to reveal to each other and each other only.
Marcus
Marcus Boverick’s life changed once again that night. While before his innocence had been swept away in falling timbers and melted canvas, he found renewed vigor and life in the heat of his new relationship with Cerrina Bertolotto. The two of them workshopped her act, determining the best way she could contribute with her cold reading skills (the ability to determine events in one’s life simply by careful observation of appearance and demeanor). He established an additional room for her act, within which they constructed a secreted and specialized projector box which they dubbed “the Fantoscope.”
The Fantoscope was used to project eerie images and subtle shades which Cerrina used for great effect along with her mysterious presence. Many heavy hearts were joyously reunited with their departed loved ones under the guise of Madam Cerrina’s “Visions of the Past Grand Macabre,” yet these specters existed solely in the realm of chicanery.
Word of the combined 3-in-1 show spread among the trolley park and pier, even as both financial downturn spread and the police presence began to increase in the light of a rash of missing persons. Cerrina and Marcus celebrated their newfound success with nights of drunken revelry and on two occasions, beneath starchy bed sheets tucked away within the confines of his trailer.
Yet as before and ever after, curious hearts tend to beckon, and Marcus felt that she was beginning to be drawn to the siren song that threatened their new salubrious life. He knew she had caught sight of him spiriting away while she entertained the masses and yet he chose not to act upon her encroaching curiosity. He would reveal in time. There was also the matter of the new exhibits, strange new artifacts and mummified beings arriving on a near weekly basis. He wondered just how far her acute sensibilities could carry her suspicion.
Marvelous Wonders, yes, but then sometimes mysteries are made to be uncovered when hollow hearts experience something new. The pair had been successful but they both felt the maw of guilt gnawing at their souls. Marcus seemed to experience it more intensely, becoming increasingly sullen and withdrawn each time he added a new exhibit to the menagerie. He was aloof when the police came to question about the rash of disappearances and became short with Cerrina.
Behind closed doors he was a broken man. Cerrina’s inclusion into his life had held the darkness at bay but the brilliant popcorn bulbs were beginning to fade again. The Fleas had become more insistent to be fed and to extract Oil for a still unknown purpose and it was all he could do to keep them satiated. More and more he would beckon others into his workshop while Cerrina was tending to business or enthralling the masses. Each time the chunk of wood collided with an innocent skull and the Fleas set out to do their handiwork, he felt a sliver of soul dissipating into the grease laden wind, a miasma of guilt and regret.
The wooden plank felt solid in his hand and he remembered days past when burning wood had blackened his grip on reality and the weapon had found its first target. He was becoming what he had feared and all for what? Fame and fortune? A legacy that had already been stained and corrupted before he had even discovered the tiny beings? Marcus Boverick lay there as the Fleas drained him of Oil and he felt eternally empty.
Cerrina
Things had certainly changed over the past month or so. Our relationship had begun with the suddenness and ferocity of a cyclone, but had since dissipated into a gentle, weak-willed wind. The midway itself seemed less bright, instead dim and lacking the enchantment that it normally imparted upon my soul. Things felt…hollow.
True, Marcus and I had found success in combining my cold read act with his collection of curiosities and the flea circus, but even my specialized skills could not detect what machinations were greasing the gears of his enigmatic mind. He spent more time behind a locked door in the trailer than not, and he requested I never enter, but he would reveal it to me in time. Showman’s trade and all, but I couldn’t help but ponder what secrets he had left to tell beyond the humbuggery of the exhibits and the genuine Wonder of the flea circus. But I was determined to find out.
I had my opportunity one night in August as the warm summer winds blew wild and the midway rides closed early due to an impending storm approaching the coast. I was finishing securing down the tarp and fastening the tent while Marcus excused himself to go “balance the books.” Given the particularly slow day, I had not expected this to take him too long to accomplish. After two hours passed, I became concerned, and ventured into the trailer to investigate.
Lo and behold, the door to his workshop was ajar—an unusual sight in and of itself. He always made sure to secure the showman’s secrets contained therein, whatever they might actually be. I decided then and there that he owed me something beyond the companionship and partnership afforded thus far, and I carefully opened the door.
The workshop was a chamber of horrors, a sight which I might have partially anticipated, but had never truly prepared my mind for. My Marcus lay in a reclined leather chair, straps of rubber tubing fastened to his forearm. His beautiful, intriguing tattoo was smeared in blood and the red essence pooled into a jar on the floor. I gazed about, mind frozen at the rows and rows of bloodied jars lining the walls, some filled and others empty, but each with a strip of tape labeled with the date they were likely obtained.
I had seen horrors and sights that no person ought to see, but this was something that could pluck one’s mind from the sanctity of sanity and plunge it steadfast into a raging maelstrom of madness. I had somehow stifled a scream until now, but it gave way into the stagnant, musky air as a flea leaped from my lover’s flayed arm and onto my own.
Marcus stirred at the sudden sound even as I instinctively swatted at the creature, leaving a blood smeared remnant upon my sleeve. His eyes suddenly shot open, eyes that were once warm with a touch of melancholy, now replaced with something feral and unknown.
“What have you done?” he shrieked as he leaped from the chair.
The rubber tubing pooled loose, leaking red onto the bare tile floor. I looked at the slackening apparatus, past it and at a chunk of wood on a counter. Next to it lay a battered, singed toolbox. What horrors lurked within? What Wonders and Marvels and further things to be shown that were held from prying eyes until you’ve paid your due. Admission is cheap, come see 3-for-1! What a deal! Murder, insanity, and bloodshed—all for one small token of your very soul! Come one, come all!
The flap of skin hanging from his arm spun wildly as he gripped my forearm. The swinging motion caused me to giggle madly. Why not? It was all so absurd, commedia dell’arte here at its most satirical and extravagant. Tragedy and laughter and the barest, raw nerve of the Showman’s trade exposed here for all to see. For me to see, only me, and what a lucky gal I was.
I wrenched out of his grasp as he circled around me, forcing me back toward the abattoir. “Marcus…” I began and did not know how to conclude.
Tears ran from his eyes, now softer, yet still lined with malicious intent. Not toward me, no, he could never harm me. I could see it in…everything he was. I have a sense for these things, you see? I have The Sight… don’t I?
“I did not want you to find out yet, Cerrina,” he whispered and coughed lightly. He tried to smooth the flap of skin back onto his arm but it refused to stay. “They need me and I need them.”
“Who? Who, Marcus?”
“My friends. My little friends, my partners. You killed one of them, but there are still many left. Look around you and see how their gift glows. Sparkling like sunlight, the Oil and the essence that lives in us all. It’s what fuels them, what compels them to put on their shows. But I never have enough. Never enough from me. So, I have to give them more.” He held out his arm to me. “Look, look and see how they move.” He traced the chain of his tattoo with his finger. “They’re under there right now, moving about and taking what they wish. They take and they give, and I do the same for them. It’s a beautiful partnership.”
I wept for his frazzled mind and the sudden chaotic shattering of everything we had built. Golden Oil, the ichor of gods. Moving and rippling flesh. Justification for…I knew then, the exhibits and the missing people. I listened and I looked as he wished me to do. I saw the bottles and jars of blood, and witnessed nothing but a broken mind. No moving tattoos, no shining essence. And then I looked in his eyes and saw the same. Nothing.
He stood there and cried as the winds began to whip outside. I watched him twitch and cough, and knew he wanted to embrace me, but could not bring himself to do so. I held steadfast, and backed away toward the counter where the plank of wood and the toolbox sat. I caught a small glimpse of what lay within and shuddered at the fleas dancing upon the blood-encrusted pocket watch. Ordinary fleas, perhaps coaxed by him by the unruly methods he had described to me prior. No magic, no chicanery or supernatural mischief. I subtly reached in and pocketed something that would come in handy.
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Marcus whispered. He fell into a hacking cough, and I reached out to him but pulled back just as quickly. “My father always drank with the Strongman and Boppo, the clown. Funny. He always drank with them after the show. But then…he’d be upset about the state of the show and I was the closest thing he could hit. So, I hit him back with his own baton. He was—and then—but if he burns then nobody would—”
Marcus trailed back into a sob, and I reached up to feel my own scars. Mine had been imparted purely by accident. By this tragedy we were connected, pied circus tents and carnival menageries fallen to flame. An errant spark here, a discarded ember there. All too easy. All too easy for a trapeze artist to fall, for a young child to brave the heat, and reach for flailing arms. All too easy for a shard to propel into a small face, and melt both flesh and innocence. All too easy for a young one with a scarred visage to seek out that which lies beyond this realm, and discover nothing there but blackness and empty pits, not unlike Marcus’s own eyes. Where I found pain, others found solace by communication with the dead—even if it was mere trickery. But none of this mattered. My face had been scarred, but his mind had been singed beyond recognition. I knew this now and wondered how often in our relationship that he had been lucid. Did he dream of cutting my throat and feeding me to the fleas while I slept beside him?
He coughed once more from what I knew were smoke-ravaged lungs. I saw him shudder, and felt the remorse in his trembling hands and voice. I reached out to grasp him, determined for what I knew had to be done. Cleanse this hell with the very flames that had birthed it into our idyllic slice of cotton candy coated life.
“What Wonders you have shown me, good Admiral,” I whispered, pulling him close. I could feel his eyes dart open with alarm as he heard the click of the lighter. I pushed away from him, grasped the chunk of wood and lit it aflame. It caught easily, a purging torch to eliminate the atrocities I had seen. I ran my hand along the rows of jars, smashing them upon the floor and coating everything in sight with a sheen of scarlet. I heard him cry in anguish, and I wept at the terror in his voice. But I also knew that this had to end.
Our foundation had been built upon a bedrock of butchery. I had already grown wary of bilking the marks out with false promises of beloved spiritual reunions. I could no longer be part of anything that brought pain, especially a den of depravity such as this.
He moaned wordlessly and flailed, pushing me aside and gathering up all that he could. I ran out of the trailer and into the tent where I touched the torch to the closest piece of canvas I could find. The flames ran quickly, as they so often do, and I swallowed the fear that arose; a bitter taste.
The Admiral appeared in the doorway of the tent, soaked in red that matched the jacket he so often wore. The flap of skin dangled from his forearm but the fleas were nowhere to be seen. Even still, he clutched the pocket watch in his hand as it shook feverishly.
I ducked past the smoldering flea circus, and past the exhibits—remnants of my love’s unfortunate victims. I shuddered at the ruination I had unknowingly brought upon this beleaguered town. Nothing would ever be the same. But the flames would help. They took and they gave as so often occurs in life.
I pushed out of the tent as the flames spread behind me. The summer storm blew more fiercely now, wind shrieking into the night as the first spatter of rain upon my wretched form.
“I love you, Admiral,” I called out to the flaming wreck. Present tense, for my feelings had developed into something unknown in our short time together. I wanted him to know before he succumbed to the fire.
He appeared in the doorway of the show tent as a burning shroud of yellow canvas fell across his shoulders. He did not flinch. He seemed perfectly calm among the element that had ruined his life and mind. In his hand, he grasped the pocket watch as it began to melt and coat his hands with liquid death, beautiful and gleaming gold, just as he had described.
As the flames cascaded and fell around him, Marcus Boverick spoke one sentence from within a golden grin. To this day, I have yet to determine my lover’s last words on this plane of existence. Mysteries to be known but perhaps not, for a showman never reveals his secrets.
The rain poured more steadily and I knew it would snuff out the fire before it spread to the rest of the pier, but not before the Admiral, his show, and his den of death would be wiped from existence. Perhaps one day I could commune with his spirit and ask him things. Ask him if he truly knew what he was doing with his blood and the blood of his victims. Ask him if he really loved me.
But I knew better. Madame Cerrina Bertolotto could not really speak to the dead. It was tricks, illusions, or as P.T. Barnum would say, a display of “humbug.” I laughed bitterly, and allowed the rain to caress my scars.
I had witnessed sights that should remain unseen and even more that I wished to purge from my addled mind. But as twisted as they were, they were Wondrous sights indeed.
One might say….
Wondrous Marvels.
Marvelous Wonders.