Mending Horses (19 page)

Slowly Mr. Chamberlain's mustache unveiled a brilliant white smile against the darkness of his face. He nodded once, then spun away toward the center of the ring.

“Secrets!” he said, his voice a shocking boom. Hundreds of backsides shifted uneasily, hundreds of breaths drew in at once. He flung his arms wide, his sleeves unfurling like wings. A pair of ravens appeared and flew above the crowd, shattering the stillness with their harsh cries.

“Secrets,” he repeated, this time just above a whisper. “The air is heavy with secrets. They are a burden on our minds. Our hearts. Our souls.” His words were elegantly chiseled, the
r
's rolling from his tongue, the
s
's lingering ominously. He favored one person with his gaze, then another.

“There are the secrets we keep from others. The secrets others keep from us. The secrets we keep from ourselves.” He balled his hands into fists and thrust them down by his sides. Twin plumes
of black smoke rose on either side of him. “There are secrets of the earth.” He raised his hands, sending white smoke skyward. “The heavens.” He whirled, and the gold thread and bits of glass on his robe twinkled like stars. “The seas.” Blue scarves flew from his sleeves. He caught them, and they disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared.

“Secrets of the gods.” One eyebrow rose, and he smiled with only half his mouth. “Ah, I beg your pardon. In my land we have many gods. Here you have one god, but I think many more secrets, yes?” Somebody giggled uneasily. He brought his hands close to his chest and flung them wide. A woman shrieked as jets of flame shot from his hands. “And secrets of the devil.

“Today, you will see many secrets revealed.” As he raised his left hand, one of the ravens returned and landed on his wrist. He fixed Billy once again with his dark stare. “Secrets of the living.” He raised his right hand, and the other raven perched. “And secrets of the dead.

“If you fear these secrets, you should leave now.” He scanned the crowd for a long moment, as if he really did expect somebody to leave. “You choose to stay? You are very brave. Braver than my last audience.” He released the birds with a wave of his hands. “Where shall we begin?” The ravens swooped over the crowd, dipping low enough to make men and women duck and cower.

Billy grinned and poked Daniel. Now here was some fun. A lot of silly folk afraid of a couple of pet birds. No doubt Mr. S.'s actor-friend had a companion in the crowd who would pretend the birds had chosen him and then would feign a trance to make folk think he'd been charmed. Well, there was no point in letting Mr. S's friend have all the fun. Billy stood and put out her arm to make a perch like Mr. Chamberlain had. Before Mr. S. or Daniel could sit her down, one of the ravens landed on her arm. It was heavier than she'd expected, but also more beautiful, its feathers gleaming blue-black, its eyes bright and curious. She reached out a finger to stroke its breast. Its caw stung her eardrums, and it flapped its wings and made as if to peck at her. She hummed a little to settle the bird. It seemed to work: the raven smoothed its
feathers and rested more lightly on her arm. When she tried to stroke it again, it let her.

“Very good,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “You have discovered his secret.”

She looked up sharply. “Me?”

The tall man's smile spread across his entire face. “He likes music.”

“That's no secret,” Billy said. “Everyone likes music.”

“Not everyone.” The conjurer pointed to the second raven, which had settled in the rigging near the top of the tent. “Kali has a tin ear. But Shiva—well, perhaps it is not that you have discovered his secret, but that he has discovered yours. Would you care to share it with us?”

“Sh-share?” Billy felt suddenly timid.

The conjurer opened a gate in the fence surrounding the ring. “Come and sing for us.”

Billy picked her way across the tier of seats and came into the ring, the raven still perched on her arm. With a clicking noise and a whistle, the conjurer called the bird. To the crowd's amusement, the bird fluffed his wings and settled more securely on Billy's arm.

“Ah, well. Have it your way, Shiva.” The conjurer sighed, then turned back to Billy. “Now . . . what would you like me to call you?”

A little of her earlier sauciness returned. “You're the one s'posed to be knowing all the secrets. You ought to be able to guess what me name is, oughtn't you?”

The audience's laughter warmed her like a stolen sip of Mr. S.'s rum. The conjurer chuckled, too. “I do not guess. I know,” he said. “But I didn't ask what your name is. Nor did I ask who you are. I asked what you want to be called. That is quite a different thing.”

Billy glanced from the conjurer to Mr. S, sure they'd never had the chance to talk. How could Mr. S.'s friend know? But he looked at her like he could read her thoughts as easy as Mr. S. could read one of his books.

The conjurer tugged at his mustache and shrugged, turning
toward the audience. “Ah, well, it is no concern of mine. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce—”

“Buh-Buh-Billy,” she said as fast and as loud as she could. “Billy Fogarty.”

He gave her an ominous half smile. “So you choose to keep your secret, then?” The conjurer came so close she could see that his colorful robe was fraying at the cuffs, and she caught a glimpse of pouches sewn inside the bell-like sleeves. His mustache moved oddly, and she realized that it was pasted on and starting to come loose. One long finger tipped her chin up. She tried to close her eyes against his stare, but couldn't.

Don't tell, don't tell, don't tell
, she prayed.

And then he winked at her. His finger brushed the raven's breast feathers, and his hand settled on Billy's head. “Ladies and gentlemen, there are some secrets that are too dangerous to be revealed. Some secrets that even I must keep. Yes, even a child”—he'd said
child
, not
boy
. But not
girl
, either, Billy thought with relief—“even a child can have such secrets.”

The audience, which had been whispering and giggling at the exchange between Billy and the conjurer, fell silent. With one hand still on Billy's head, the conjurer closed his eyes and placed the fingertips of the other hand against the black jewel on his turban. “I sense that this child has secrets and powers beyond your imagining. Why else would this child have been chosen? And so, Billy,” he said, opening his eyes, “I offer you an exchange. A song for a secret.”

“A—a—s-s-song?”

“Sing to these good people and I will keep your secret safe.” He stroked the bird again. “Because Shiva seems to like you.” He made a soft chirrupy noise, and the raven nudged Billy's ear gently with his beak.

A song. It couldn't be a common melody like “Touch Not the Cup” or “The False Knight”; it had to be something special, something magical sounding. Irish would sound more magical than English, and she could sing about cows and sheep and pigs and they'd never know. Still, she'd never sung for so many people
before. Sweat trickled down her spine, and her throat closed tight. Then she remembered something Mr. S. had said: “
If you think about singing to all them people, you're sunk. Pick one person and sing for him. Or close your eyes and sing for yourself.”

She coughed the tightness out of her throat and cupped her hand around the raven's breast, feeling the tiny heart beating fast against her fingers. The bird had chosen her; she would sing for him. She chose a song that Mam had taught her about the goddess Morrigan, who took the form of a raven and taunted the hero Cúchulainn as he was dying. Never before had the song felt so true and so sad. Never before had the song made her cry as she sang it. When she finished, the crowd was so silent that she feared she'd made a mess of it.

The conjurer shook his head, blinking several times, as if he'd just awoken. “My God in heaven,” he whispered so softly that she could barely hear him. “Where in hell did Jonny find you?”

The applause broke over them so suddenly that it startled the raven from his perch. The bird circled Billy and the conjurer, cawing loudly, before settling back down, this time on Billy's shoulder, where he tugged at her hair as if he wanted a yellow tuft to add to his nest.

The conjurer placed his hand on Billy's head again, raising the other to signal for silence. “As I said, ladies and gentlemen, this child has powers beyond your imagining.” He ruffled her hair and added softly, “And mine.”

“The Prince will not see anyone.” A fortress of a man stood in front of the tent, legs braced wide, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh, I think Fred'll want to see me,” Jonathan said.

“Fred?” The guard blinked. “How do you—I mean, there's nobody by that name here.”

“Don't worry, I'm not here to arrest the old reprobate. Just wanting to pay a call on a friend.” Jonathan raised a hand at the guard's scowl. “I know it defies credibility that Fred would have any friends, but there's one or two of us that haven't given up on him entirely.”

Long brown fingers streaked with white drew aside the tent flap. Fred had discarded his turban; a white band across his forehead showed where Prince Otoo Baswamati's skin ended and Fred Chamberlain's began. Instead of the prince's multicolored robe, he wore a threadbare, stained dressing gown with a large towel tucked into his collar like a ruff. “I swear! Jonathan Quincy Stocking, you old scoundrel!” he cried, grabbing Jonathan by the lapels and dragging him into the tent, waving to Daniel and Billy to follow.

“You ain't gone and made yourself a family man, have you, Jonny?” Fred asked. He'd shed the Indian conjurer's turban and mannerisms, but his deep-set eyes were no less dark and probing. When his gaze targeted Billy, one dark eyebrow arched slowly.

“Traveling companions,” Jonathan explained, drawing Fred's glance away from the girl. “A coupl'a boys seeking freedom and adventure and good company. Dan'l—Billy—” He gestured for them to come forward. “Meet Fred Chamberlain. Prince
Baswamati, the Indian mystic and conjurer, formerly Chief Talks With Fire, the Cherokee shaman, formerly Sir Evelyn Higginbottom, spiritualist and prestidigitator extraordinaire, formerly—”

“Now, now, Jonny, no need. Any friends of Jonny's—well, as they say . . .” Fred offered his hand to Daniel. “Mr.—”

“Linnehan,” Jonathan replied.

Fred kept Daniel's hand a fraction longer than courtesy required, a test of some kind in both handshake and gaze.

“And?” Fred turned to Billy.

“Mr. Fogarty,” Jonathan said. “Mr. William James Michael Fogarty.”

“Mister,” Fred repeated, enveloping the girl's hand in his. Her cheeks reddened.

“Mister,” Jonathan said emphatically. He clapped Fred on the back, breaking his grip on Billy's hand. “Why don't you boys run along? See the menagerie tent and the mummy and all that. Fred and me got a lot'a years to catch up on.”

“Good idea.” Fred rummaged among the jars and bottles, rags and brushes scattered across his dressing table and drew out a penny. “Here.” He held the coin out to Billy. “Buy yourself a treat.”

Billy took the penny mechanically, apparently transfixed by Fred's transformation from Indian mystic and conjurer to plain old Fred.

Daniel nudged her. “C'mon. I want to take a closer look at them dancing ponies.”

As the pair disappeared, Fred stared after them like a cat studying a cageful of canaries. Then he shook himself and slapped Jonathan on the back. “Well, Jonny, it's been a few years. Seven? Eight, maybe?” He reached into one of his pockets, pulled out a segar, and gave it to Jonathan. “You're looking well.” He snapped his fingers, and a flame appeared in his hand.

Even though Jonathan knew how the trick was done, he still couldn't see where the lucifer had come from or how Fred had struck it. “Still quick as ever, aren't you?” he said.

“No.” Fred gingerly peeled the mustache from his upper lip.
“Quicker.” He sat on a stool by his dressing table and smeared his face with grease. “How d'you like the act?”

“It's a pip. Best you've come up with yet,” Jonathan said, savoring the segar. Fred's taste was still as good as ever. Except for the cot, the tent looked like a gentleman's bedchamber. A painted canvas covered the ground, and furniture and trunks crowded the space: a chest of drawers, a washstand, two chairs and a small table set with a cloth, a bottle, a glass, and a covered basket. All were a bit worn, but they'd been good quality when new. If Fred hadn't come up in the world, he at least was trying to look the part. Jonathan blew a smoke ring that drifted toward the tent's peak. “The birds—that's a brilliant touch.”

“I should hope so.” Fred's voice was muffled by the rag he used to rub off Prince Otoo Baswamati's dusky complexion. “Cost a pretty penny. They talk, too.” He looked up over the edge of the towel, one bushy eyebrow dangling into his eye like a fat fuzzy caterpillar. With a grimace, he yanked it off. He squeezed his eyes shut before he peeled the other one off with a noise like tearing paper. He tossed the eyebrows onto the dressing table next to the mustache. “Trouble with the birds is,” he said, scrubbing at his real eyebrows, “you got to remember not to feed 'em until after the show. Out in Ashfield, some idiot gave 'em blackberries a little while before I went on. Must'a ruined a hundred dollars of bonnets and gowns when they flew over the audience. We couldn't get out of that town fast enough.”