Blind Voices, page 5
The Minotaur watched her, still smiling.
Harold finished his examination. “Uh… thank you,” he said timorously and sat down. The Minotaur took a step backward and continued toward the rear of the tent.
Billy leaned across Rose. “Well?” he asked excitedly.
Harold shrugged. “It’s a great makeup job. I couldn’t tell how they were fastened. They didn’t budge a bit when I pulled on ‘em. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were real.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wish I could examine the hoofs.”
Billy turned back to Francine and saw her closed eyes and pinched face. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, half-concerned and half-amused.
The others turned to look at her. None of them had noticed her reaction; they had been watching Harold and the Minotaur. Francine quickly wiped the wetness from her face with her fingers and sniffled. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Nothing’s the matter.”
Billy gave her his handkerchief and she daubed at her eyes with it.
“Are you sick?” Harold asked. “Do you want to leave?”
“No,” Francine said tensely, twitching her head. “I’m not sick. I don’t want to leave. I said nothing’s the matter.” She gave Billy his handkerchief and wouldn’t look at them.
Rose watched her with a little ghost of a smile and a twinkle in her eye.
The houselights went off and applause rose around them, drawing their attention to the stage where the Minotaur bowed as the curtains slithered together and blocked him from view. There were more grating sounds as something heavy was moved behind the curtain.
Louis stepped forward. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” He paused until there was complete silence.
“There are many strange stories of the sea and the marvelous creatures who dwell there. One of the most awesome of these sea-creatures is the mermaid—half woman and half fish. Are they one of nature’s mistakes? One of nature’s experiments that didn’t work? Or are they one of nature’s secrets? Ladies and gentlemen, decide for yourselves.”
He gestured grandly and the curtain opened on a large water-filled glass tank. A slight rustle swept the tent as the audience strained forward to get a better look.
The creature floated in the tank, her body rotating slowly with the movement of the water. She was a fish from the waist down, but barely human from the waist up. Her body was greenish-gray and leathery. Her small breasts were like deflated bladders. Her arms were small and her fingers stubby and webbed. Her head was bald and scaly; her mouth very small with horny lips; her eyes round and lidless like a fish. Her ears were tiny holes. She had the look of being half-finished.
Rose leaned across Harold, bracing herself with a hand on his thigh, and whispered to Evelyn. “What did I tell you? It’s just an old dead fish.”
Then the Little Mermaid moved. She swam around in a tight circle, gracefully undulating her tail fins. She stopped and put her hands against the glass, looking at the people with eyes like pearl buttons. The gasps and murmurs gradually turned to applause.
“The poor horrible thing!” Evelyn said.
“There she is, ladies and gentlemen: the Little Mermaid,” Louis called. “What secrets does she hold? What does she think about? We’ll never know because she does not speak.”
The curtain closed and the applause died.
“How did they do that, Hal?” Rose asked.
Harold shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s probably somebody in a costume.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, our next guest is already here. She’s been standing right beside me for the last five minutes.” He looked around furtively and then laughed. “At least, I think she’s standing beside me. Are you there, invisible woman?”
“Yes, I’m here.” The voice was musically feminine and seemed to originate in the air beside Louis. Laughter rippled from the audience.
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you got dressed so the people can see where you are?” Louis asked, laughing with the audience.
“Oh, very well,” the voice pouted. “But it’s been such a dreadfully warm day and this tent is so stuffy. It’s so cool and comfortable without clothes.” There was more laughter from the audience.
“Please!” Louis gasped with mock indignation that managed to be half leer. “You’ll shock these nice people. There are children in the audience.”
“But I don’t have a thing to wear,” the voice complained.
“I’ll fix that,” Louis said with a flourish.
A roustabout came through the curtains, disinterest on his good-looking face and a red dress over his arm. He held gloves, a hat, and a pair of shoes in the other hand.
“Will these do?” Louis asked with a little bow to the empty air.
“Ooh, those are lovely,” the disembodied voice cooed.
The dress suddenly lifted from the man’s arm, contorted through the air, and slipped down as if someone had pulled it over her head. It settled and stood there as if it were on a well-proportioned female body. The audience cheered and laughed as the dress turned and bent, the skirt swirling.
“Will you hook me please?” the voice asked sweetly. There was thunderous applause. Finney and Jack could hardly contain themselves. Louis reached over, as the dress turned its back to him, and fastened the hooks and eyes.
“Thank you,” the voice said pleasantly.
The gloves went into the air and onto invisible hands—the shoes were slipped onto invisible feet; the hat went atop an invisible head. The gloves lifted the hem of the skirt slightly and the invisible woman curtsied. She turned and sashayed toward the rear of the stage, swinging her hips. A glove parted the curtain and the dress twirled through the opening.
“Boy!” Harold shook his head as he applauded. “You gotta give ‘em credit. They’re really good. Of course,” he said complacently, “it’s either done with wires or mirrors.”
“I’m proud of you, Harold,” Evelyn said with feigned awe. “It’s amazing what three years of college can do.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at her with lowered brows. “You don’t believe all this stuff is , do you?”
“It’s as easy to believe in an invisible woman as it is to believe they could do all that with wires.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “They do it with mirrors. I’ll explain how when we get home.”
“Thank you… Hal,” she said, smiling sweetly. He looked at her with a suspicious frown.
Louis ended the applause. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve seen some wondrous sights tonight, but what you will see next is perhaps the strangest of all. Stranger than the Minotaur, stranger than Tiny Tim, stranger than the Little Mermaid, stranger even than Medusa.”
Jack grabbed Finney’s arm and stared at the closed curtain with round eyes. “It’s the Snake Goddess—it’s finally the Snake Goddess.”
“There have been many legends of a race of snake people who dwelt on Earth before the dawn of civilization. Legends of the lost continents of Mu and Lemuria where the snake people lived. How can we doubt these legends when we have the living proof before our very eyes?” He gestured dramatically and stepped to the side of the stage. “The Snake Goddess!”
The curtains rustled open, revealing a low platform on which rested the giant coils of a snake, coils as thick as the Minotaur’s thigh. Propped in the nest of coils was the torso of a woman. Silver hair crested on her head like the feathers of a jungle bird. Her skin was white and mottled with patches of light brown. She had the startled face of an idiot.
Her small hands rested on the pile of coils. She looked nervously about, with quick, jerking movements of her head. A leather collar encircled her neck. A chain attached to the collar lay across the coils. A roustabout held the other end.
The audience drew in its collective breath and leaned forward tensely.
“Don’t be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen,” Louis said quickly, smiling and holding up his hands. “The Snake Goddess is not dangerous. She is at least a million years old and senile. The collar and chain are merely to keep her from wandering off and injuring herself.”
Harold made a sour face of disbelief.
Finney looked at Jack anxiously. “How do you like her? Is she everything you wanted her to be?” he whispered.
“Sumbitch,” Jack answered softly, not taking his shining eyes from the creature on the stage.
“Come along,” Louis said to the snake woman. “Let the folks get a better look at you.”
The roustabout gave the chain a casual jerk and stepped toward the front of the stage. The pale torso slowly rose up on its serpent body. The coils shifted, gleaming dully under the lights. The snake woman slid off the platform and undulated across the stage, her body uncoiling behind her. The audience stirred nervously, the muttering growing in volume.
The man led her off the stage as the houselights came up. The reptilian body flowed over the edge until it stretched twenty feet down the aisle. The people rose to their feet, trying to see but only managing to get in one another’s way. Those on the aisle shrank back against those straining forward. The roustabout held the chain with a practiced hand, not letting her get too close to either side, but he could not control her slithering body. A woman screamed as the Goddess brushed against the bench on which she sat, then giggled in embarrassment.
The snake woman turned at the rear of the tent and drew her body around her, then flowed back toward the stage. She held her small arms out slightly as if keeping her balance. Her eyes darted from one side of the aisle to the other as she seemed to hurry back to her platform.
“Which is it, Harold? Wires or mirrors?” Evelyn asked with a wry smile. Harold gave her an annoyed glance and held Rose’s hand as she huddled against him.
Francine watched the snake woman’s scaly body glide by her feet with little reaction. She felt that she probably should be carrying on like the others, but it was just some sort of trick and she couldn’t get excited over it. She felt numb and wished she were home.
Billy gave Francine an occasional worried glance but said nothing.
Louis had some trouble quieting the audience as the Snake Goddess gathered her coils around her on the platform. But they finally settled down as the houselights dimmed and the curtain closed.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Louis said over the fading murmurs. “Now, I would like to introduce the man who made the Wonder Show possible, the man who brought all these oddities of nature and legend together for your amusement and edification. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present: the Curator.”
Haverstock stepped from between the curtains, wearing flowing black robes. He walked to the front of the stage, ignoring Louis, who ducked through the curtains. There was expectant applause.
“I was wondering when he was gonna show up,” Harold said from the side of his mouth.
“Doesn’t look very much like his picture, does he?” Sonny whispered.
“He looks too much like it to suit me,” Rose said.
“I am not a magician,” Haverstock began. “I do not do card tricks, saw ladies in half, or pull paper flowers from my sleeve.”
He spoke in a perfunctory voice, using none of Louis’s theatrics. He seemed confident his performance would stand on its own, without razzle-dazzle.
“Nor am I a mentalist,” he continued. “I do not identify keys or pocket watches concealed by an assistant. I do not use sleight of hand nor legerdemain in any way. I am here to reveal to you the powers of the Ancients, the race that ruled the Earth before Man. The Ancients were the masters of the elements, but perished because they used their powers unwisely. In a cataclysm that sank whole continents beneath the seas, they perished, leaving no trace of their great works. I, and I alone, have rediscovered a small fragment of their incredible powers.
“Before we go further, I would like to introduce my assistant. Angel the Magic Boy.”
The interior of the tent went suddenly and totally dark. There was a nervous rustle in the audience as they heard the curtains parting.
A single light sprang into being over the stage near the top of the tent. A face floated there, pale and beautiful, topped by slightly unruly white hair. The light spread gradually until the entire figure was illuminated, floating six feet above the stage.
Angel wore a robe similar to Haverstock’s, but white. He floated upright, his arms outstretched, his face calm and bland.
He began to move. He floated out over the wide-eyed faces, his robes billowing around him like a slow-motion wraith, like a ghost ship sailing on moonbeams. The light stayed with him as if he were radiating it himself. The startled faces looked up at him, illuminated by his warm glow.
He reached the rear of the tent and turned in a fantasy of swirling robes. He returned to the stage and turned again, facing the audience. Then he slowly lowered to the stage. The audience applauded madly. Angel’s glow waned as the stage lights came up. He stood looking vaguely at the audience as Haverstock held up his hands for silence.
“The Ancients recognized only four elements: air, earth, fire, and water. They knew complete mastery of them all. Tonight I will demonstrate these powers for you.” He lowered his eyebrows sternly. “I must caution you, however, to remain in your seats during this demonstration. What you see may frighten you, may even terrify you. There will be apparitions and manifestations in the air over your heads and in the ground under your feet, but there is no danger if you remain in your seats and do not panic!”
Finney and Jack trembled in anticipation and looked at each other in delicious fright.
Harold rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother,” he groaned.
“Remember,” Haverstock admonished, “no matter what you see, no matter what you hear, there is no danger if you remain seated. I cannot be responsible for your safety otherwise. Do not leave your seats!”
He pulled a wand from his robes as the audience sat, barely breathing. He held it above his head and the tent was again pitched into total darkness.
“Fire!” Haverstock bellowed.
The tip of the wand burst into flame, illuminating the stage and creating ruby reflections in the wide eyes of the spectators. Angel stood where he had, calmly, his arms at his sides, his eyes partially closed, his head moving faintly side to side. Haverstock reached downward with the wand and touched the flaming end to Angel’s robes.
Angel burst into flame as though the robes had been soaked in gasoline. The audience screamed and jumped to its feet. Evelyn gasped and involuntarily clutched her throat. Haverstock held up a cautionary hand.
Angel was completely obliterated by the fire. No trace of him remained, only a raw flame that burned with no source. Then the flame shrank, pulled into itself, became not a fire but a ball of light, a chunk of the sun a yard across that rose from the stage and convoluted in the air. Haverstock stood beneath it, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, staring intensely at it.
Suddenly feathery extensions of flame stretched from either side of the fireball. The flickering appendages coalesced, shaped themselves, became wings of fire. The fireball shifted, transmuted, shrank further, and took form.
The fiery swan flapped its wings of blazing feathers and took flight over the audience. It reached the rear of the tent, stretched its wings, banked, turned gracefully, and returned toward the stage. It repeated the maneuver, circling the tent, leaving behind it stray little flames that died in the air.
The audience followed it with reddened faces, swiveling heads and bodies. They crouched in their seats, hardly breathing.
“Water!” Haverstock shouted.
The air in the center of the tent darkened. Wisps of fog appeared from nowhere and rushed to the center of the darkness, swirling around it, and then were drawn into the cauldron of roiling air. The firebird continued to circle, now trailing feathers of steam as it flew through the damp air. The darkness grew light, became a whirlpool of mist. The walls of the tent billowed inward, though there was no wind. The mist thickened swiftly, rounding its shape.
Then a six-foot globe of clear water floated high in the tent. The surface rippled and trembled as if trying to disintegrate. The tent walls settled back and the swirling turbulence in the air died away.
The people watched in amazement, craning their necks, too far into shock to make a sound.
The swan of fire plunged suddenly into the sphere. Steam hissed and billowed, obscuring the globe of water for a moment. When the steam cleared, Angel was inside it, naked and unharmed. He lay curled in the center of the globe, seen as if through a fogged window, his pale, slim body gleaming although no lights were on. The air itself seemed illuminated.
Then his body uncurled and he swam in the globe of water, executing graceful turns and flourishes, slow, dream-like movements which belied the limited space in which he floated.
Evelyn watched, lost in a reverie, overwhelmed by the beauty of what she saw. Only when she couldn’t see any longer did she realize that her eyes had filled with tears.
“Earth!” Haverstock called, though it is doubtful if anyone heard him.
The hard-packed earth that was the floor of the tent trembled. The people looked away from the globe of water, looked at the ground, held their breaths, waiting for the next onslaught on their senses. The earth moved again and they screamed. They heard a grumbling, a grinding, a rending. They were frozen, afraid to move. Then there was a new sound, a sharp crack like gunfire and a fissure opened down the center of the aisle, exposing raw earth and stones. It started at the stage as a mere crack, then widened to about a foot and dwindled away to a crack again at the rear of the tent. Loose earth and small stones broke away from the sides and fell with small clattering sounds. The people drew back, away from the miniature chasm.
Then there was a sound above them, a huge sigh of suddenly rushing water. The globe collapsed like a punctured water-filled balloon, the water streaming into the fissure. For a moment, the audience was divided by a shimmering curtain. Then when the water had stopped falling, with a rumble and more trembling the ground closed, leaving no mark where the fissure had been.
