Freaks: Alive, on the Inside!, Page 3

  We thrust through vines, jumped bushes, and wove in and out of the trees. I tried to ignore the stabs to my feet and the branches that whipped my flanks. My calves stung with bramble scratches. Finally we came panting to the wall.

  “Quick,” I said, and bent over as the enemy burst through the bushes behind us, favoring them with a seldom-seen view of my rear.

  Apollo leaped on my back. He scrambled to my shoulders as I straightened, then hoisted himself to the top of the wall. I clambered up after him, using the rough stones as handholds and toeholds. Apollo helped me straddle the peak.

  The townies stood below shaking their fists, but they dared not follow.

  “You wait, freaks,” yelled the dark-haired boy. “Well catch you.”

  His taunt set a fire of anger alight in me. “I’m not a freak,” I almost yelled, then choked the words back. How would that make Apollo feel? It would sound as though I thought I was better than he.

  “Come on,” I said to Apollo. “We’ve got to get out of sight.”

  Apollo waved a rude gesture in the direction of the town boys before he leaped into the kitchen garden. I followed him down into the neat rows of squash.

  “You were marvelous,” Apollo cried, jumping up and down with excitement. “The way you tackled both of them together.”

  “I might not have had to if you hadn’t bitten that lad,” I complained in hushed tones. “Keep your voice down. Do you want to be discovered like this?”

  Apollo gazed at me blankly. Embarrassment was not in his vocabulary.

  “Let me put it this way, then,” I said. “Would you like to scare a lady and be beaten by your papa for it?”

  “Oh!” he said, light dawning.

  I caught the glitter of fear in his eyes. My words had more than a shadow of truth to them, I guessed. “Just be cautious,” I told Apollo. “If we can get back to our quarters without being spotted, all will be well.”

  A giggle from behind the pea trellis crushed my hopes. Apollo yelped and grabbed my arm.

  Out from the vines swaggered Archie Crum. Behind him a kitchen maid rose to her feet. She stood taller than the dwarf by a foot and a half, as tall as the trellis, in fact. Although I was surprised to see Archie in the kitchen garden, I was not surprised to see him with a woman. Archie had a knack with the ladies. She peeked through her fingers at us, then covered her eyes again, which I thought hypocritical, considering what she had recently been up to.

  Apollo let go my arm. “Archie! We’ve had an adventure.”

  “My, my, my,” said Archie Crum. “Working on a new act, are you? Let me guess—the Flying Birthday Suit Boys?”

  The girl giggled again, and I felt myself grow red.

  “Go find something to cover the Acrobats au naturel, why don’t you, my dear,” said Archie.

  The girl ran for the kitchen door.

  “You should have seen Abel trounce a pair of bullies,” Apollo said.

  “Thieves, were they?” Archie asked, looking me up and down.

  “I didn’t trounce them,” I objected. “We had to run away.”

  “Townies caught us while we were swimming!” Apollo said.

  “Swimming in thorns, apparently,” Archie answered.

  What a sight I must be. Apollo’s fur had protected him, but I was a mass of welts and scratches. Before I could think of an adequate retort, the kitchen maid came back with sheets fresh from the airing cupboard. I flung the one she offered me around myself. I didn’t ask Archie to be quiet about his discovery because I knew it would be useless. “Come on, Apollo,” I said. I was tired of being mocked.

  Apollo struggled with his sheet. “But you were heroic,” he insisted in his sweet voice as he followed me around to a little-used side door, dragging a train behind him. “You came to my rescue when I was done for.”

  “You’ve been reading too many penny dreadfuls,” I told him.

  Fortunately, I ran into no one, and when I arrived at our apartments, my parents had already gone down to the dining room. I dressed for dinner and joined them and Uncle Jack at our family table before they had finished the soup. To my dismay, Archie Crum sat at the next table with Orlando the Magnificent. He was table-hopping. He winked at me and grinned. I knew that by the end of dinner half the hall would know of my predicament this afternoon. I might as well tell my parents before they heard a lurid version from someone else. I took a deep breath that didn’t escape the notice of my mother.

  “What is it Abel, my love?” she asked. The foot holding her spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

  “I’m afraid I had a misadventure this afternoon,” I admitted, then told them all that had passed, including our discovery by Archie Crum.

  “Well done!” Papa exclaimed. He pushed down with his hands and flipped himself around on his chair to face me. “We can always trust you to protect young Apollo.”

  I couldn’t look at him. “I didn’t do much,” I grumbled. “I ran away.” Those boys had been there because of me, but I couldn’t say that and let him down.

  “It’s no shame to run in the face of superior forces,” Papa said. “It’s the wise thing to do, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Uncle Jack slapped me on the back. “However, in case you don’t get away so swiftly next time, I’ll show you a trick or two tomorrow at practice.”

  I tried to control my temper. They were being kind. “I’m sorry about the clothes, Mama,” I said.

  “Pish!” she answered. “If they are not in the mud by the pond tomorrow, I’m sure I can sew up more. They were not your good clothes, after all.”

  “I suspect that Mr. Papandreou is not of the same mind,” said Papa.

  At the Papandreou table the normally dour head of the family appeared thunderous. Mrs. P., Phoebe, and Apollo sat with their heads bowed and ate silently. Apollo’s hand crept to his face as if he was brushing away a tear. Had his father beaten him after all?

  What would Mr. P. do to me if he thought I had been toying with his daughter? Would he beat me also, or would he just insist that I make her an honest woman? My appetite left me and I put down my fork.

  “Are you not hungry, dear?” my ever vigilant mother asked.

  “I’m full,” I lied.

  I sat and fiddled with my ring as I waited for my family to finish their meal, examining them from under lowered eyelids. I loved my parents, but now I saw them as the boys in town did, strange and distorted. Perhaps it frightened the townies even more that they couldn’t see what my difference was, although they were sure I had one. If I went out into the world, would young ladies think me handsome when they didn’t have the image of my mother and father in their eyes? The surge of yearning I felt for this made me uncomfortable—hot and prickly with betrayal.

  “Stop kicking the table leg, Abel,” my father said.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I stared at my ring so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I felt ashamed that I could so easily abandon my parents, if only in my mind.

  The bezel setting, which held the turquoise stone in place, had the form of a gold snake with its tail in its mouth. As I turned the ring back and forth, the gold caught the light and dazzled my eyes with sparks. Pleasure caught in my throat as I mesmerized myself with the tiny fireworks show. I narrowed my eyes and the room faded—all I saw were sparkles. My anger drained away, I relaxed, and the annoyance of the world grew distant.

  A Gypsy ring, the townie had called it. My eyes were fully closed now.

  Colors swirled behind my eyelids. They began to take form. A dancer in white gauze trimmed with azure and crimson emerged, her breasts bare. Pleasure cupped my loins with a firm, hot paw.

  She held a string of beads in one hand and a rattle in the other, twirling its two-pronged frame to make metal disks hiss and shush in harmony with the clicking of her beads. She danced to the rhythm of the chants sung by swaying girls and of the chock-chock sound of their ivory wands knocking. She rolled her hips and embraced the music with her arms. Pipes soa
red in melody, harps chimed, the rhythm grew faster and faster, until she twirled in a blur of whites, reds, blues, and golds. People clapped, they clicked their fingers. I shook with internal thunder and felt I might spiral into the maelstrom of the dance. She spun closer and closer, her dark eyes flashing promises, until she stopped, breathless, in front of me, so near I could smell the spices she wore, heated by her sweat, and my blood surged sweet and effervescent.

  Come to me, a voice whispered in my ear like the rustling of leaves.

  My eyes shot open and I looked frantically to either side. Surely that had been a real voice.

  “Flea bit you, son?” my father asked.

  “Um, I think I fell asleep,” I said. My heart thumped as I tried to work out what my mind had turned into a voice. The rattling of cutlery? A sneeze? “Perhaps I should get to bed early.”

  “You are excused,” said my mother.

  I was too deep in thought to pay much mind to the chuckles I heard on the way out, but as I passed the table of Gladys Dibble, the Pixie Queen, and her fairy court, a raucous voice burst into song.

  “He flies through the air with the greatest of ease. The naked young man on the flying trapeze …”

  Archie sat between Betty and Dolly like a fly in a bun, singing at the top of his lungs. Archie, all the time ready to take a poke at me because I was so ordinary. The other diners clapped time as they laughed, and Baby Betty blew me a kiss.

  Did they all think me a joke? Underneath their affection was there pity for the normal boy who would never quite belong? Or was there a streak of resentment under their teasing?

  I strode from the room, gazing straight ahead. I wanted to keep on going, to march right out of the house.

  4

  I CAME EARLY TO THE PRACTICE barn the next morning and found Apollo in the hayloft, sobbing into a bale of last summer’s sweetgrass. Through his rumpled fur I could see a bruise on the cheek turned my way—his father’s work, no doubt. Damn the man. Apollo was only a child. I sat at the boy’s side and pulled him to me. He clasped me and wept into my shoulder. Although my neck felt damp and itchy with his tears, I held him until he’d finished crying.

  “Cheer up,” I told him. “You’ll soon be all grown up and your own man.”

  “Wish it was now,” he said, and hiccupped.

  The barn door creaked. “Jack’s here,” I said. “I’m to have self-defense lessons. Want to watch?”

  Apollo perked right up. “Yeah!” he said, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Uncle Jack’s lesson turned out to be no more than the boxing pointers he had given me in the past. I dutifully sparred with him and listened to his advice, but my heart wasn’t in it.

  I heard laughter. “Why, it’s the water baby at his practice. Very gentlemanly, I must say.” Archie Crum swaggered though the barn door.

  “What do you want, Crum?” Jack asked.

  Archie ignored his question. “It’s not Marquis of Queensbury rules you need when the odds are against you. What you need are barroom moves. Come on, Jack, let’s show the boys some real fighting.”

  Jack was a fine, muscular man and more than a match for a four-foot dwarf, no matter how burly or how experienced a stage strong man.

  Archie saw my doubt. “I shouldn’t worry if I were you, young frog. I’ve toppled bigger giants than our Jacko here.” With that, he kicked Jack in the left shin. Jack howled and lifted the injured leg. Archie hooked the remaining leg with one of his, and Jack fell to the ground.

  Apollo whooped, and my mouth fell open.

  “At this point you jump on him or run,” Archie said to me. “If it’s you that falls, tuck, roll, and bolt. Don’t lie there like this idiot and let your foe kick you.”

  “That’s dirty fighting,” Jack said, scrambling to his feet.

  Archie rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s dirty. When a man’s in danger, he does what he can to survive. Always take your opponent by surprise when you can, Abel. Especially when he’s bigger than you. Hit him where it hurts the most—stamp on his instep; kick him in the shin, or in the privates if you can do that without him grabbing your leg. Of course, if you do hit him in the privates, be prepared to run like hell. If you’re fighting in close, poke him in the eyes.”

  “Hold on there,” said Jack. “That can inflict permanent damage.”

  “Who do you want permanently damaged?” Archie asked me. “You or the bastard who’s knocking your block off? If you don’t want to hurt him, turn tail. If you stay, be prepared to maim.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know where you picked that up, Archie.”

  “You’ve led a sheltered life, Mr. Loose Shirt and Pretend I’m Normal,” Archie answered. “Remember, boys, anything sharp and pointy is useful. Hit ’em with that ring, Abel, and don’t be afraid to pull hair and bite if you have to.” He hitched up his pants and left.

  “Coward’s tactics,” Jack grumbled.

  I nodded, a tight, worried knot clenched in my stomach. Was this another joke at my expense? But I had to admit, I was impressed.

  To my surprise, all week long I received similar advice from the most unlikely sources.

  “Stick him with a hatpin, sweetie,” said tiny Gladys Dibble. “I always keep one at hand.”

  “A handful of dirt or sand in the eyes is helpful,” said Albert Sunderland.

  “Step on his foot,” said Jolly Dolly. “That always works for me.”

  I wouldn’t have believed so many of my friends had been in need of self-defense.

  A few days later, Uncle Jack surprised me at practice with a new set of throwing knives in a leather bandolier. “These are weighted for distance,” he told me, and grinned.

  I accepted the bandolier with delight and pulled out a knife to feel the balance. It had a pleasant heft to it and sat in my palm like an old friend. These were just the knives I needed. “Will I get a chance to show them off in front of an audience soon?” I asked, made hopeful by his gift.

  “I’m sure we can round up some of the fellows,” he answered.

  “No, I mean a real audience,” I said. “When are you going to let me join your act?”

  “My act?” He cocked his head, and my heart sank as I realized it had never crossed his mind.

  “So why did you bother to teach me? Where am I supposed to use these skills?” I demanded as anger flamed through me.

  Uncle Jack looked taken aback. “Another show, I suppose.”

  I glared at him. “You mean I’m not good enough for this show?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I …” Jack reached for me, but I stormed out of the barn.

  It was true, then. I didn’t belong. I was useless here. I was handicapped by my normality. Why would an audience care about me? Who would come to see a normal boy throw knives, with all these exciting oddities around? I wanted to be seen, but if I wanted a chance to stand out, I would have to find a place with people like me.

  Ha! People like me. I felt sad at setting myself apart by those words. I had always thought we were alike, all of us who lived in Faeryland—we laughed and cried and loved and hurt—but I was ordinary, and they were stars. I needed to be in a place where skill alone could set me apart. I remembered the poster I’d seen. A place like that circus.

  As I entered the front hall, Phoebe came down the stairs.

  “Abel!” she called, and ran lightly to meet me, her silky facial hair a nimbus about her. “Would you like to join my family for dinner tonight?”

  “Why?” I asked, annoyed at the interception.

  The smile on Phoebe’s face dimmed a little. She hesitated. “You waited too long and my father has something to say to you.”

  “About what?” I was being deliberately obtuse.

  Her smile disappeared completely. “I thought …”

  “You think too much,” I snapped. “And use your imagination in excess when you do.”

  Her face crumpled into a ball of anguished fur, and I brushed by her, my anger fueled even hotter by m
y guilt.

  “Wait until I tell my father,” she called after me, but I stormed on.

  Up in my room I stewed. What control did I have over my life? None. I didn’t have a career, and if I didn’t watch out, I would find myself married to Phoebe, the son-in-law of a brutal man. All they thought me good for around here was being an errand boy and a nursemaid. It was time to take charge. I would join the circus and make a career of my own. I grabbed a battered suitcase from beneath my bed, and as I packed my good suit, my new knives, and assorted necessaries, I made my plans.

  I would have a long walk ahead of me. If I left around mid-night, when everyone was safe in their quarters, I should be at the circus grounds by dawn. I consulted the almanac in my father’s study. Most of the way would be dirt roads far from any streetlights, but the moon was full and not due to set until the early hours, so I should be able to make my way.

  I forced myself to eat dinner—I would need my strength—but I didn’t join the conversation. From the corner of my eye I saw Phoebe staring, and my food tasted like sawdust. I turned away, but my neck prickled and I could imagine the heavy hand of Mr. P. landing on my shoulder, and his loud demands.

  “Are you well, Abel?” my mother asked.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled. I tried not to think of the tears she would shed on the morrow.

  I fled the dining room as soon as I was able.

  I worked through the show like a mechanical man, fetching and carrying and shifting scenery as always. When Phoebe passed me in the wings, she paused as if to speak, but I hurried away. I am a rotten scoundrel, I told myself, but that didn’t influence me to go back and find her.

  I went to my chamber early and stared at my packed suitcase, my mouth dry. I half expected to talk myself out of leaving before the time came, but exhilaration overcame doubt, and I penned a brief letter to my folks.

  Dearest Mama and Papa,