eight

 

 

AFTER MY... EPISODE, I swam in blackness—the sleep of those that don’t have the energy to dream. I don’t know when Mrs. Hudson left, only that she did. Hell, I didn’t so much as stir when Crash returned.

When I opened my eyes on the morning, they were raw, the lashes crusty and brittle. Wind howled outside, whistled over the stovepipe and rattled some of the less sturdy parts of the wagon. Every so often a powerful gust gave the vardo a shake, the springs creaking beneath me. Even my hammock got to swaying.

I couldn’t make out if it was daytime or night, nor if I’d slept for a night or a whole year. Crash had pulled the blackout curtains over every cranny. I wouldn’t have been able to see my hand in front of my face if I’d been lily white. I heard Crash snoring, though. Great draughts and snuffles rolled in a slow rhythm beneath me.

I might’ve dozed that way, just listening to both kinds of wind and drifting along in the gloaming, but it’s hard to say. Sooner or later, though, someone pounded on our door to wake Ol’ Scratch ’imself.

Crash jumped, a bony appendage striking me in the spine. I went rocking, and when he flailed out with both arms the momentum got the better of me. I fell gracelessly atop my roommate, causing both of us to grumble and growl.

“Jim!” Mrs. Hudson called from outside. “We need you!”

Crash and I untangled ourselves and he crawled to the door while I used my prosthetic to lever myself up. He opened the door just about the time I achieved the status of a biped.

Holding an arm over his eyes against the grey light of morning, Crash let out a horrified moan. “Goddammit, Mrs. Hudson, what in the names of the seven whores of Hell do you mean by making such a fuss at my door?”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Dramatic ponce,” she muttered. “We need the doctor.”

“The Professor is in a different wagon, you daft—”

“Not that idiot, Crash! I’m talking about the doctor!” She punctuated this with a jab of her stubby fingers toward me. A few steps and she was grabbing me by my trouser leg and hauling me toward the door. “We’ve got a problem, Jim.”

“Crash,” I said over my shoulder, “my bag.”

Though I heard him grouse about it, he didn’t refuse. Mrs. Hudson led me through the drizzle at a pace that made her jiggle and shake in an all too pleasing a fashion.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mars. Got himself bloodied up.”

“How?”

“Burglar.”

Shit. “Is Artemesia alright?”

“Shaken. Furious.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t take me to the tattooed lady’s wagon, though. Instead we veered left of it to the behemoth tent of Mr. Mars. A small crowd had already massed outside, their breath fogging me as I passed. Without bothering to jingle the bell outside, the dwarf tossed back the flap and yanked me in after her.

Mars lay in his over-sized tick with Artemesia sitting at his side. The strongman’s ruddy face glistened with sweat, and his eyes were glassy as a doll’s. His great chest lay bare for all to see, though the rest of him was covered with a blanket. I saw the wound on his left flank, just below the rib cage. Someone had sliced him one, not terribly deep, but enough to bleed and make the Devil’s own mess. Smaller cuts were visible on his upper arm, and a puncture was scabbing over on his palm.

“Why the hell didn’t you come get me sooner?”

Mars looked at me sheepishly. “Thought it was nothing. Until it weren’t.”

Crash stumbled in behind me with my black bag in hand. I took it to Mars’s side and opened it, taking the time to look at each wound individually. Crash, suddenly sobered by the sight of his bleeding strongman, hovered behind me.

“What happened?”

Artemesia’s red-rimmed eyes found mine, then rose to Crash. “Someone broke into my wagon last night, Boss. Jonny heard the ruckus and came over to check on me. Caught the bastard’s knife a few times.”

“Did you see him?”

Mars shook his head. “Too dark. Too fast.”

“Crash,” I barked. “Take out the biggest tankard you can find and bring me some clean snow. Artemesia, I need you to get me some clean rags, towels, scarves, whatever you’ve got. Both of you, make sure it’s all clean!”

Without question, they set to my instructions.

“And someone get some water on the boil!” I shouted. As I dug through my bag for what I would need, I said, “Mr. Mars, next time you have so much as a papercut, I’d like to be privy to that information, do you understand?”

“Aye, Doc.” Mars let his head fall back and his eyes close. All the better that I could do my work.

“Excellent. Mrs. Hudson, darling?”

“Yes?”

“You got any white lightning in that car of yours?”

“As much as you need.”

I eyed Mars’s considerably frame. “We’re going to need it. And some whiskey, I think.”

“There’s a bottle of rye next to your bag, Jim.”

She set off to get the booze and I put the bottle in Mars’s hand. “Take a pull.”

“Already been sipping at it,” he said.

That could account for some of the redness on his cheeks and nose, possibly a measure of the sweat pouring down his face.

Artemesia flew into the tent with an armful of fabric.

“Crash!” I roared. “Get your lanky ass in here.”

A few moments later he appeared with the snow I’d asked for, along with his cigar box of intoxicants. He looked at me knowingly, and I nodded.

“Alright,” said I. “When Mrs. Hudson gets back, Artemesia, I need you to lay out all of those rags, you hear? Then I need you to soak these needles in some of the moonshine.”

Artemesia nodded.

I took one of the handkerchiefs she’d fetched and brought it to Crash’s side. Quietly I asked, “You bring what I asked for?”

He bobbed his head and passed me the cigar box. I flipped the top and sure enough, next to the reefer we shared was a phial of white powder. Glad to know he understood my meaning when I asked for “snow.”

“Crash, I can’t handle the stuff if I want my hands to be worth a damn.”

“What do you need me to do, Jim?”

His steely eyes were somber and serious. And what’s more, he was waiting on me to give him ironclad instructions which he would follow like gospel—something I’d rarely seen in my time with Sanford Haus.

“I need you to rub the cocaine around the wound in his side, alright? But wash your damn hands first.”

Without question he did as I bade. I filled the handkerchief with snow from outside and tied it into a pouch. When Crash had finished, I handed Artemesia the icy pack and urged her to put it on her fiancé’s side.

Meanwhile, I prepared myself for the minor surgery of stitching up Mr. Mars. I washed my hands, got my needles as clean as a baby’s soul and set out the thread.

By the time I returned to Mars’s bedside, he was calmer. The cocaine had eased a good portion of his hurts, and the whiskey would take his mind to a more mellow place. Examining that great gash, I found that it looked far angrier than it had a right to. The cut wasn’t all that deep, truthfully. Long and bloody, sure, but it didn’t puncture the chest wall. No need to worry about his organs being damaged, but his flesh was mighty torn up. The stitches would be all he’d need, though. That and a few days off his feet.

I grimaced, imagining this might ruin some of the wedding night fun for him and his bride.

While I stitched up her man, Artemesia sat to his other side, dabbing his forehead with freshly cooled cloths.

“I was dead to the world, you see,” she said quietly. “Didn’t even know there’d been a break-in. But Jonny’s such a light sleeper. A feather dropping would wake this lout up.”

She sniffed and I glanced up to see she’d started crying.

“He’s gon’ be just fine, Miss Proust,” I assured her. “Ox like this one won’t be down long.”

From the corner, Crash asked, “Did you see them, Artemesia? Get any glimpse of who slashed at him?”

“No. It was too dark.”

“Did they take anything?”

Peripherally I saw her shake her head. “Not a thing. Bastard ruined my wedding dress, though. Sonofabitch,” she spat.

“Can you show me?” Crash asked.

I pulled away from my work so that Artemesia could vacate the bed and not jostle my hands. When she and Crash took off, Mrs. Hudson took their place in the tent with me. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t stare at me or try to peer over my shoulder. Her presence, though, was calming and steady. She radiated a strength that others lacked. Sure, Crash exuded authority and leadership. But Martha Hudson offered something else: stalwart serenity in the face of fear. Like she’d weathered my storm the night before, she stood there now, bringing peace with her.

I’d just finished sewing up Mars’s side when Crash burst into the room.

“Dandy, look at this.”

He held Miss Proust’s wedding gown. The lovely lace frock would’ve been a sight on the tattooed lady’s delightful form, it’s true. But the creamy fabric had been marred with black stains.

Drawings of two stick-figures standing beneath a cross.