Select the play button above for an audio reading.
The Persuader is a moniker that has been given to any number of weapons throughout history. And the billionaire known as Peter Conroy is determined to collect them all.
The appellation of said weapons began as a joke, as many serious things do, a long time ago. In Imperial China, a diplomat at the Emperor’s court witnessed the sovereign’s weaponsmith demonstrate a portable iron tube packed with black powder blast a mock formation of enemy soldiers, reducing them to little more than chunks of wood. The diplomat suggested The Persuader as a moniker, saying it would persuade a neighboring kingdom to see the error of its ways. The smith had wanted to call his new invention The Dragon’s Breath. However, the Emperor had laughed so heartily at the diplomat’s proposal that no one dared question the decision.
The earliest firearms were unreliable so, naturally, men still relied upon sword and spear. However, by the 15th century every soldier had come to fear the sound of cannon and gunfire and to be relieved by the one element that consistently spoiled them – rain. However, a starving artist, but brilliant engineer, was persuaded by the amber-eyed consigliere of the Duke of Milan to put his genius to work in developing a new firing mechanism that kept powder dry in the worst of conditions. Thus, when enemies of Milan attacked in in the rain, they were persuaded that this was no longer a winning strategy when met with volleys of gunfire. The consigliere pointed this out and his Duke found it as humorous as the old Emperor did. He christened the new firearm with the same moniker.
The name, The Persuader, began to take on a legend of its own, a name barked in fear and relief by soldiers when they saw the other side or their own mount such a weapon. The single explosions that announced its firing could make brave men tremble and weak men cry. Of course, it still only had the one argument, a simple if loud ‘bang,’ which took quite a long time to repeat.
Times of great violence, though, often lead to great innovation, and the conflicts between European settlers and the native peoples of North America were no exception. A group of scalp-hunters, about to setoff into Comanche territory, were intrigued by a local politician who drew their attention to a posting for a new firearm. This “revolver,” he said, would persuade any enemy to let off. Even the brutish bounty hunters knew the Comanche were clever and dangerous folk, having honed the tactics of firing many arrows while white men struggled to reload their single-shot rifles. Each man purchased this new Persuader and carried it for their expedition. Not far afield, the Comanche descended upon the slayers, hid amongst rocks and made noise, frightening the jittery killers into firing off their shot so they could descend and make short work of them. The Comanche were persuaded indeed when they found these fools had not one shot each, but many, as if the Devil’s right hand had multiplied their numbers.
At the advent of the first world war a man named John Moses attended an exposition when a visiting delegate said to him, “John, if you want to make a lot of money, you need to invent something that will enable these Europeans to cut each other’s throat with greater facility.” Seeing the money that every country was pouring into their armies, Moses followed the advice of this handsome stranger and created a man-portable machine gun. His weapons, all dubbed The Persuader in one form or another, made their way across five continents and two world wars, doing the talking for delegates and diplomats over decades and millions of corpses.
At the advent of each new weapon, whether with Mr. Moses or any of his successors, there was always a charming diplomat, delegate, or politician to suggest the name The Persuader. It was only during a European summit between wars when such a man spoke that he became the victim of violence himself.
When the man extolled war as a virtue, that it led to the best of technological advances, culled the weak from the population, brought forth the lion in leaders, Winston Churchill interrupted with, “To jaw, jaw is better than to war-war,” and demonstrated this by striking the diplomat. While many who read about this in the next day’s papers celebrated Churchill’s actions, the bulldog was voted out of office after his war ended.
Perhaps due his rude treatment by England, the same diplomat made his way to the Americas. There he befriended a young genius and assured him that only the overwhelming force of a new weapon would persuade the militaristic Japanese to surrender. This seed of an idea blossomed into an explosion so bright, destructive and dirty that the Japanese refused to believe their enemy could do it twice. So the Fat Man fell on Nagasaki and the Japanese surrendered, cowed by a new and terrible weapon.
There were three such weapons, not two as the history books would say, and the last (inert) version ended in the collection of Peter Conroy. The billionaire used it as an example of crude and dangerous weapons, tirelessly lobbying the United Nations on the virtues of the new “smart” bombs, things not so crass as those that dropped on Japan, but high-precision bombs capable of hitting within meters of a single target. Of course, the explosives were only one component of these new weapons, each one bristling with sensors that plug into the airplane that drops them, or coordinate with the soldier that designates the target, or relay between satellites flying high over head. From the ground to the sky, this new system cocoons the world in a blanket of information that helps nations kill each other with a facility that Mr. Moses could never have imagined.
The Persuader is a moniker that has been given to any number of weapons throughout history. And the billionaire Peter Conroy is determined to have them all. When asked why a diplomat of his stature would acquire weapons, he only smiles in the mysterious way that he’s become famous for and says he has a personal interest. Who knows what will happen when he completes his collection?
I took Lanzo to Simon’s cafe. Any cafe would do, I suppose, but I suspected that Simon might know how to write a love letter.
It didn’t appear like he’d be interested in the job, though. While the Corsican hadn’t been with the voyous when they had threatened us, Simon stared at Lanzo in the same guarded way. Fortunately, there was still enough of a lunch crowd that I didn’t have to make immediate introductions.
I steered Lanzo through the few occupied tables, happy to see no one paid us any mind. The diners finishing meals were so wrapped in their own plans that they wouldn’t suspect we were up to nefarious ones. I was grateful to find my usual table empty. I sat with back against the wall. Lanzo glanced around, then snorted before taking a seat, the entire scene too bourgeois for him, I suppose. My friendship with Simon made it hard to ignore this, but I did.
I was pleasantly surprised, though, that when Simon came over Lanzo asked permission to smoke. He didn’t say anything to the older Frenchman, only took out his cigarettes and held them up with a monosyllabic query. Ambivalent at first, Simon took stock of his remaining lunch crowd and then nodded. Addicts are always happy to have company. Lanzo actually smiled in return, grateful to have landed on a friendly shore.
“Unusual to see you twice in one day,” Simon noted to me.
“I love this place. I’m showing it to all my friends.” I waved at Lanzo as he lit up.
It was Simon’s turn to snort. He said no more, though, and I ordered two coffees. I asked, “Do you have a pen and paper?” I waved a finger between me and Lanzo, “We need to write a letter.”
Knowing that younger generations had abandoned written correspondence, Simon cocked his head at me as if he misunderstood. Knowing it would make him happy to hear it, I clarified with, “A love letter.”
Simon smiled like the sun had come out. Maybe he thought I was constructing an ode to Sophie and had pulled some starving poet in from the street to help me. Within moments he was back with two cups of coffee, a pen, and a pad of stationery. He set these down, then moved off into the cafe to tend to his remaining customers so this Cyrano and I could work.
Lanzo sipped his coffee and then picked up the pen, skewing the pad for a left-handed writer. To encourage him, I said, “Keep it simple.”
Lanzo gave a short, bitter chuckle, eliciting the same tacit sympathy that I had felt when we met at the casino. Yes, he was a punk, but he was also about the same age I had been when I had fallen in love with Cheryl. What had started out as something so promising had laid down a path that was so full of pain and joy that the two were hardly distinguishable. A part of me, then, wanted to warn Lanzo, to wave him away from his current course, to tell him to flee from the heartbreak that would surely be his if he pursued the girl.
Instead I reminded him of the critical information that the letter needed to contain – the warehouse, tomorrow night. He only dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
I watched him smoke nervously, drinking his coffee, trying to figure out what to write to a woman I suspect he was beginning to realize he didn’t know very well. There were perfunctory pen scratches that ended in him pulling pages off the pad and tossing them aside. I tried to think of something that I might say to Sophie in a similar situation, decided that it hardly applied.
As his lunch crowd dwindled, Simon made circles between us and them. He kept an eye on Lanzo as the younger man became increasingly frustrated. Eventually, the old waiter began to pick up bits of discarded paper as he swung by, quietly unfolding the crumbled balls. Because it was more entertaining than watching Lanzo, I observed Simon’s expression as he read these. In general, his raised eyebrows and distended cheeks indicated he agreed with Lanzo’s appraisement, although once or twice he pursed his lips and cupped his chin, nodding thoughtfully.
When the cafe emptied, Simon sat down with us and lit one of his cigarillos, staring at Lanzo. The younger man eventually noticed this and came up from the depths of the notepad to ask Simon, “What?”
Simon leaned forward and, with a finger, pinned the paper in front of Lanzo to the table. “If you want something,” he said, looking the youngster directly in the eye, “you must ask for it.”
Lanzo returned Simon’s stare, his eyes shaded with hostility. However, Simon held the younger man’s gaze, a growing intensity between them. Time passed until an understanding flickered there. Lanzo’s enmity remitted and he nodded. Simon released the paper. He returned to his duties and Lanzo to his scribbling.
Lanzo scratched out something, ripped off that sheet of paper, and tossed it to the ground to join its mutilated cousins. He then wrote out a few lines with a quickness like they’d burn him if he didn’t get them out. These completed, he slapped down the pen and pushed it away. He picked up his cigarette, sucking on it as if it contained the oxygen he needed after too long underwater.
I slid the pad over to me. The message was in English, their shared language I supposed. It read:
“I am leaving. In our time together, I sensed you are unhappy here in much the same way that I am unhappy. Come with me and perhaps we can find happiness together.”
I read over it again. It was brief, direct, and had the compelling element of what I suspected was the truth.
Not knowing what else to say, I decided on, “Very good.” If Lanzo took any pleasure from the compliment, it didn’t show.
I instructed him to add the time and meeting place. He did so, scattering cigarette ash over the paper like he was drying the ink with sand. The addition complete, I gave a final inspection, nodded when satisfied. The paper was small and light enough that I could fold it up into a square that would fit into the palm of my hand.
I got up and took out money to pay. Simon stopped me with a wave of his dishcloth towards the bar. “No need. I will put it on your tab.” Remembering the wad of Mitnick’s cash I had left with him, I nodded. At least if something happened to me, Simon would have reimbursement for his trouble.
I walked Lanzo out of the cafe. On the street, I realized I wasn’t sure where I was heading, but decided it was better if Lanzo and I weren’t together. I escorted him away from Simon’s then said, “If I don’t see you before, be at the Distributeur International warehouse tomorrow after dark.” Being there that early almost guaranteed we’d be waiting a good long time for Nika, but that was better than missing her.
I pivoted to a direction that would take me to the nearest tram station when Lanzo said, “Wait.”
It was a tiny black kitten that found the boy when he didn’t want to be found. It may have been malnourished, but it was dextrous and keen of eye, so leapt before the boy as he sat.
The most natural action of the world for a kitten is, of course, to hop into the nearest lap. The angry red in the boy’s eyes, though, paused it, and he spoke his first petulant words to the kitten. “What do you want?”
“I see you,” the kitten said. “I see your heart. And I see it’s cat-shaped hole.”
The boy stared with a new fascination at the kitten, but said, “Go away.”
Instead of obeying the kitten jumped into his lap, causing the boy to pull his hands away as if the tiny creature were made of hot iron. But he didn’t throw the kitten from his lap.
The kitten settled, following its tail in circles until it nestled into the boy’s lap, purring loudly and gently. Sensing the boy settle under him, the kitten said, “She must have been very special.”
With a pretense of anger, the boy asked, “Who?”
“The one who came before me. The one who left the hole in you.”
The air calmed around the two and the kitten felt the boy gently place a hand on its back. “She was.”
“Tell me how she was special.”
There was a long hesitation before the boy responded. “She was beautiful and sweet as she was stubborn and brave. She loved everyone but especially me. But she didn’t love me enough to stay inside and got out one night and a car hit her.” The kitten, eyes closed, could hear the anger and tears in the boy’s voice. “Now she’s dead.”
“That’s so sad. Was she young?”
“No. She was ten.”
“Oh!” the kitten sleepily exclaimed. “That’s ancient. Was she a wizard?”
A small, involuntary laugh escaped the boy as he reflexively began to pet the kitten. “No. That’s not very old for a cat. You don’t need to have magic for that much life.”
“Then I’ll be sure to live that long.”
The gentle hand petting the kitten stopped. “But she broke my heart.”
“All good things do.”
“She could have stayed inside.”
“You can’t ask something to change its nature just because it loves you.” The kitten snuggled into the boy, urging him to continue his petting. “Besides, I’m different.”
“How?”
“I’m a boy,” said the kitten, “I won’t go outside. Everyone knows all boys are cowards.”
The kitten was jostled in his lap as the boy chuckled. After a moment, he picked up the kitten in his hands to take him home. “Maybe so.”
We exited at an open square that was beginning to become familiar, near the Saint Isidore bridge, where commuters were walking over from the banlieues under the watchful gaze of more gendarmerie.Most were dressed for work. Others were the poorer type of tourist, walking over into Old Town from the low-end hostels. We moved against that current until we broke away from the bridge traffic to head along the river, following the pedestrian path next to the road. Realizing where we were, I started scanning for the path down the embankment, trying to place anything that might be a landmark that would help me find my way here again.
The path was difficult to spot from atop the gorge, the embankment monolith in the bright sun. I only saw it only after Lanzo stepped over the chain between bollards that separated the drop from the road. I scanned the area for any witnesses, but we had gotten a good away from the crowds. We climbed down, zig-zagging back and forth along the switchbacks, down towards the river.
The rusty door of the hutch at the bottom of the embankment was exactly the same as before. As we got closer, I could hear voices from within. I couldn’t distinguish which language, though, so I stopped Lanzo to go in first. I was surprised that he was able to get more irritated at this than he already was, but I ignored it.
Peeking in, I saw only the Idiots. The three of them were in nearly the same places as before, the only difference being that now they were sitting up instead of passed out. Max took a cigarette out of his mouth to wiped his face with the balaclava, all of them laughing, tinged with hysteria.
I pushed into the room with enough force that the rusty hinges on the door let out a squeal that got everyone’s attention. I was about to say some roustabout bullshit from a drill sergeant memory, but all three of the Idiots stood up with a surprising speed, blinking into the sudden brightness. Recognizing me, Max actually smiled past the hand he held in front of his eyes, which made me instantly suspicious.
This only increased when he moved forward to shake my hand. I took it, but mostly to get a feel for him. Even with the light coming through the open door, Max had a slight glow to him, with a friendlier grin on his face than any I had seen to date. He spoke rapidly, too fast for me to understand, and gestured with his other hand in exaggerated twerks that translated out to the rest of his body. I realized he probably hadn’t slept since the last time we had spoke. None of them had.
I wasn’t an amphetamine counselor, so I didn’t see a point in drawing attention to this. Instead I examined the room. It was cleaner than before, the trash having been thrown out, but it was much the same with each of the Idiots own nest of dirty sleeping bags and cushions nestled into the corners. I could only hope they had found a new place to take Nika.
I took my hand back from Max’s speed-induced grip. “Things are moving fast.”
Max grinned even wider, “Paux, we are already ready.” I found this artificial confidence from his upper high only stoked the anger that had been smoldering since I had nearly smacked the cigarette out of Lanzo’s mouth.
Swerving my head like an unhappy bull, I made a show of taking in the room. “It doesn’t look that way to me. Are we taking the princess someplace else?”
Grinning impossibly broader, Max said, “Oui, oui,” and planted his cigarette back in his face while gesturing for me to follow. He didn’t lead me out of the hutch, though, but instead towards the interior door that the Algerian had been leaning against. Max threw it open like he was showing off the bridal suite and strode into the darkness beyond.
I stepped into a passage that had probably been carved by the Idiots’ ancestors, rough-hewn walls rising up into an arched corridor from a dirt floor. This man-made cavern was lit by a series of light bulbs strung together by wires, from one corner to another, four in total, making a square of fairy lights that seemed to float in the air like something from a carnival.
Underneath these lights, sitting in the square formed by the lights, was a clean, over-sized mattress piled with pillows and comforters. When I saw it there was a part of me that was surprised it wasn’t covered in stuffed animals.
I wasn’t sure how they rigged up the electricity or how the Idiots were capable of putting something like this together without fucking it up. But the bedroom was clean and dry, the lights wired into some patch job that had been routed down here from God knows where.
And there was no clerk to check in with, no one to demand a passport, no lobby witnesses to ask about who had seen what. Nika could be moved down here and kept away from the world and no one might know it. It was perfect. If she had Lanzo with her, she might not even get bored.
I turned from the mattress to see the Idiots standing behind me, grinning. In the face of their gloating, I hated to made admit they had done a good job. But I did, causing them to grin even wider.
“I’m going to meet with Mitnick tomorrow, so I’ll have a chance to get a message to Nika then.” The Idiots nodded, the speed turning their heads into emphatic axes. The Corsican hid his face from his friends, reminded that they were betraying him even as he was anxious to see Nika. When no one drew the obvious conclusion, I stated, “We need to give her a time and a place to meet us.”
There was a long moment when no one said anything until, God bless him, Fatty asked, “The Factory?” This was immediately cast down on, for good and obvious reasons, but it did open up the flood gates and the Idiots began to toss out ideas. Trying to coordinate this bombastic flow of amphetamine-enhanced brainstorming made me feel a bit like a grade school teacher wrangling a creative outburst from an excited class.
Eventually, a quiet and dark abandoned warehouse was decided on. A cousin of the Factory, it wasn’t far from the club, but wasn’t a place that was routinely inhabited by Mitnick (or Sartre’s) men. The Algerian also pointed out there was a large sign (‘Distributeur International’) above one of the main doors, making a good landmark.
“OK,” that sounded like a good place that I could wait for her without drawing too much attention. I thought about how long it might take Nika to get out of the house. Would she try to arrange some shopping trip and get away from her handlers? Or would she try to slip out in the middle of the night? Hell, for all I knew she would seduce and betray one of Mitnick’s guards. Maybe that’s what had happened to Sergei. I decided there was no way to know so I said, “We tell her to meet there tomorrow night.” It might not be enough time to allow her to get away, but it was a chance we’d have to take.
I turned to Lanzo. “The letter needs to come from you. She won’t come out unless it’s you asking. You know what you need to say?” I wasn’t sure I knew what needed to be said, so I wasn’t hopeful. Not surprisingly, Lanzo himself looked doubtful, chewing on his bottom lip as he considered it.
“OK, come on then.” I took him by the shoulder and steered him out of the hutch, leaving the Idiots with assurances that we’d be back.
Select the play button above for an audio reading.Image courtesy of Lesley Martin.
Who had tried to burn down the Enchanted Forest? And why?
Many different types of people had tried to control the Enchanted Forest. Warriors, princes, witches, wicked sisters, lumberjacks and, one on occasion, some of the trees themselves. As such, the nearest township, afraid of what the blaze might portend, chose a noble firefighter and inspector of arsons, John Bailey, to go see what he could learn. As Inspector Bailey strapped on his coat and helmet and climbed into his engine, the rest of the firefighters, brave men and women all, breathed a sigh of relief that they had not been chosen.
Arriving in his engine at the scorched portion of the Forest, Bailey noted that even the smell of the forest’s ashes was beautiful, like a midnight perfume, but he also detected a hint of gasoline. He walked through the ash that crunched like frozen snow, until he saw a figure on the edge of the where the trees began again. Lithe and shadowed by branches, its outline could have been a part of the woods themselves.
“You there,” Bailey cried with as much authority as he could muster in this strange place. “Did you see what caused this?”
The figure stepped into the light. It was feminine in shape, but oak bark was its clothes and leaves its hair. From the thicket of its head grew antlers, shaped from the coarsest wood, multi-pronged and sharp, enshrouded in an ethereal moss.
“We have summoned you, John Bailey, because those from your kingdom have caused this.” It spoke in a voice of bird song and shadow.
Deciding it was best to ignore how the creature knew his name, Bailey asked, “Do you know who did this?”
The figure drew itself up, nearly as high as a stag. “We have called to them, but they refuse to answer for their crimes.”
“Men fear your justice,” Bailey replied honestly.
“Men fear justice.”
Bailey found he couldn’t argue with that. To be the distributor of justice was often a terrible thing. To be its recipient, almost always. Summoned by this strange creature or no, it was correct, and he was here to find those responsible. Under the uncanny gaze of the creature, he returned to investigating the burned ground. While the blackened soil revealed nothing to him, near its edge he found the ground disturbed. No woodsman, Bailey was still keen enough of eye to see the earth churned up there, grass reduced to mud under bootprints and tire tracks.
Reluctantly, Bailey returned to the direction of the Forest, to speak to its representative. He nearly fell backward into the mud, though, when he found the creature standing mere feet away, having vanished the distance between then.
Recovering quickly enough to keep his helmet from falling off his head, Bailey dropped his eyes to its feet, roots entwining with the mud. He could feel its gaze on him but could not meet it, feeling it strip away any importance that his uniform or position might hold. He tried to speak forcefully, but mumbled, “These tracks might lead to the fire-starter.” Bailey gestured to the prints in the mud and the direction they headed. “I will leave you now, and return when I find answers.”
Before he could move further away, the creature took Bailey’s closest hand in an appendage not dissimilar to his own, but made of shaped wood and leaves. It was smooth like a leaf, rough like bark, and cool as a forest shadow. So Bailey gasped when the creature pressed a digit into the back of his hand and it burned like fire. Even as he tried to pull away, Bailey felt himself fill with knowledge as a welt raised where the creature had touched him.
Bailey looked into the protective eyes of the what he knew now as the Dryad. “Worry not, Bailey. The Forest provides.” Then it released him.
As he shook his hand in pain, Bailey thought, “The Forest also eats its young,” but wisely said nothing. Instead, he tipped his helmet by its hard, wide brim and climbed into his engine to follow the muddy tracks. Before he got too far, he heard the shadowed figure say, “Bring them here, John Bailey, whoever has done this.”
Bailey paused, uncertain of who had started the fire or why, and knowing it was his duty to bring the accused before human courts. Slowly, fearing to anger the Dryad, he said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You must. Those responsible must face us, or their children and their children’s children will. The Forest’s memory is long and its soul unforgiving.” Bailey nodded, more reluctant than ever to execute his orders, but feeling honor bound to do so.
Bailey followed the muddy tire tracks for many miles before he heard a cacophony and smelled a great medley. At the top of a hill Bailey spotted the cause of this commotion. On the plain before him was a round tent so massive that it was encircled by smaller tents, as if they orbited a larger cousin. Each was otherwise identical, circular and striped and held upright by many poles surrounding the tallest in the center.
Between these tents, performers of all types, from contortionists to strongmen to fire-eaters, made their way through the crowds of townsfolk that milled between these wonders. This only ceased when a man in a tall hat would cry from the main tent, ponderously calling out through a black megaphone the new fascinations that awaited them in the big top.
From his far away perch Bailey could see the wonder and splendor that drew the crowd, but he could not see which of these many people might have been fool enough to start a fire in the Enchanted Forest. So he walked down into the fairgrounds.
The man in the tall hat was operating by some kind of schedule, almost like a clockwork, emerging from the big tent at regular intervals to pontificate on absurd claims that were surely lies. He promised that within the tent were mermaids, swordsman that couldn’t die, women who could fly, and men that could tame untamable beasts. He seemed a good place to start.
Bailey approached the man in the tall hat, realizing that his dress was a mirror of the tents, his clogs the same color as the nails that held them in the ground, his pants and vest the red and white stripes of the canvas, his very fine top hat the same black as the flag at the top.
Standing in front of the man, despite Bailey’s obvious uniform and the copper badge of authority, he was ignored. Continuing to call out to passersby, he was eventually forced to inhale for a breath. Bailey jumped into this minute gap. “Hello! May I ask you a few questions?”
The caller only paused long enough to take the bullhorn away from his mouth to say, “Sorry, son, business is brisk,” and went back to his calling. Bailey glared at the man for a time, but was pushed aside as more and more people poured into the main tent. Seeing no alternative, Bailey reached up and took the bullhorn from the caller, snatching it out of his grasp. The silence that followed, complete with the indignant stare of the caller, was extremely satisfying to Bailey. Until he realized the crowd had ceased moving as well. No one on the fair grounds stirred or spoke. The balls from a juggler fell out of the air. For a strange moment, Bailey felt himself in danger.
Seeing familiar faces in the crowd, Bailey called out to a few of them, “You there Susan Sartre, Phil Barber, Roy Cooper, you know who I am. I need to speak to this man.” Bailey indicated the caller, but his fellow townsfolk stared at him with the eyes of strangers.
This eldritch tension broke when the caller snatched the bullhorn back from Bailey and said to him, “Wait your turn, son. We’ve got a permit to be here.” Then he went back to clamorously ushering folks inside.
When the last of the circus visitors had entered the tent, the caller jumped down from his box and moved to follow the crowd inside. Before the caller could escape Bailey grabbed him by the elbow and said, “Now wait a minute.”
The caller stopped, and glanced down, unperturbed, at Bailey’s hand. “I’ve got to get inside, son. I’m the Ringmaster.”
“You can spare a moment,” Bailey insisted. “There’s been a fire near here and I need to ask you a few questions.”
The Ringmaster, towering over Bailey in his tall shoes and fine hat, scanned the fairgrounds. “I don’t see a fire.”
“It didn’t happen here, but a few miles from here. You would have seen the smoke.”
The Ringmaster frowned and made a show of looking towards the horizon. “We haven’t seen any smoke. Look, son, the whole town is here, so no one’s in danger from any fire.”
“The fire finished a few days ago.”
“So much the better. Forget about it and come inside.” The Ringmaster handed Bailey a ticket, “See what all the fuss is about.”
Without thinking about it, Bailey took the ticket and watched the red and white stripes of the Ringmaster disappear into the tent. Bailey looked around to see if there might be anyone else he could speak with, but realized everyone else was already inside.
The main tent was voluminous enough that Bailey was surprised he could find no place to sit. This was made more difficult as the only lights shone on the massive ring at the tent’s center. With the Ringmaster striding out into it, Bailey quickly found a spot by one of the tent poles to stand.
There, the Ringmaster spoke through his megaphone, already introducing the next act as a clown pedaled his unicycle off stage, only pausing to throw one of his juggling blades to embed itself into the wooden pole Bailey leaned against.
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, the Circus of Wondrous Times has come from afar to bring you the impossible. We will show you exotic animals that you thought only existed in legend, magicians with unbelievable powers executed upon beautiful assistants, clowns that will bounce and stretch beyond human capacity, strongmen that will lift impossible weights, men of machine and their calamitous canines. We will transform this very big top into a sweltering jungle and then into the most arctic of wastes so we may all be transported wherever we wish to see all of the wonders of the world.”
With each strange and bold claim, Bailey found his incredulity decreasing, ceasing to think of the Ringmaster as a loud-mouthed liar, but a purveyor of the fantastic. Forgetting himself, he leaned on the pole he stood next to, eager to see whatever came next in this true oddity of civilization. Bailey had to admit, despite his initial dislike of the Ringmaster, there was something magical about this place.
That thought had only just entered his mind when Bailey’s hand brushed against the pole he leaned against. The back of his hand burned as if a brand had been pressed into it. The gasp of pain he let out was loud enough to draw the irritated attention of the closest spectators.
Stung by the tent pole, Bailey stared at it, wondering if some wasp or viper climbed upon it. But it was only a wooden pole. Rubbing the pain in his hand, his mind cleared and he realized it was where the Dryad had touched him. It was then that he saw the pole was new and roughly hewn, fresh from a forest.
Bailey examined the wood from where it was planted into the ground to where it held up the canvas ceiling. He examined the rafters, the bleachers, and realized everything, even the bones of the tent, were all made from the fresh wood of the Enchanted Forest. The wonder he had felt a moment before shed itself, revulsion taking its place. He was no longer in a circus tent, but standing in a cage made from the bones of a murder.
When next the Ringmaster made his way into the center ring, Bailey strode out between the caged lions and strongmen to snatch the black bullhorn. Before the man could protest, Bailey threw the megaphone to the ground and crushed it under his boot. Sure to his theory, under the horn’s canvas wrapping was a wooden skeleton crudely constructed from whittling of the Enchanted Forest.
The Ringmaster was already protesting this action when Bailey punched him in the mouth. Unaccustomed to violence, the strike hurt his fist, but the brand on his hand burned more.
Standing over the Ringmaster, Bailey felt all attention turn towards him, the clowns and strongmen brandishing fists and clubs, the crowd growing angry at their entertainment being disrupted. Slowly rotating so he could be seen and heard by all, Bailey cried, “This man has taken wood from the Enchanted Forest without permission and then set a fire to cover his crime. He will answer to the spirits there!”
Protests erupted from the crowd, the carnies, and the Ringmaster all at once, so none were understood. Bailey yelled for quiet and, at the center of the big top, found the acoustics carried his voice above all the others. “You know the Enchanted Forest is real. Some of you have been there. And wood was stolen from it to make this circus a magical place. You know it. You can feel it. It has built this place to entertain all of you and to make this man,” he pointed at the Ringmaster, “money.”
Looking down at the Ringmaster, Bailey proclaimed, “And then he ordered a fire lit so he might escape his crime.”
The Ringmaster smiled as a child caught misbehaving might. “Which of us, even you Bailey, hasn’t done something like this? Who’s axe is bloodier?”
Before this logic could take root, Bailey asked, “If he does not answer for these crimes, then who among us will? Or will we ignore it until the Enchanted Forest seeks revenge in our homes?” At that question, the crowd and carnies silenced, each remembering an encounter with the Forest, or someone’s tale of it. Better for the Forest to stay where it was, so we might pretend its borders contained it.
Bailey continued, “I will take this man to face the justice the Forest wishes to dispense. Is there anyone here that would stop me?” The spectators, considering Bailey’s word, only shuffled in their seats. Before anyone changed their mind, Bailey grabbed the Ringmaster by the collar of his cape and dragged him towards his exit.
As he left the big top, the crowd erupted into boos and condemnations. The Ringmaster, hearing it, smiled as Bailey pushed him into his engine, and Bailey knew why. Under whatever hex that had been fashioned from the Forest’s wood, they would always hate Bailey for this.
Bailey was glad for the noise of his engine as it covered the Ringmaster’s talk during the journey. Without the megaphone, his words were no more persuasive than anyones, but he nonetheless cajoled, bargained, bribed, and begged for Bailey to release him. Bailey ignored him.
Bailey only stopped the engine on the Forest’s blackened edge. He dragged the protesting Ringmaster from the engine, across the ash, the scent of night jasmine rising up from the footprints they left in the soot. “Forest! I have your man!”
When nothing changed or appeared, Bailey waited patiently, long enough that he began to feel foolish under the increasingly smug countenance of the Ringmaster. It was only when his eyes widened and his mouth opened but was empty of words that Bailey knew the Dryad had arrived.
It stood there, wooden antlers like a crown, its eyes as baleful as uncontrolled fire. Too afraid of the avatar to even feel shame at his fright, Bailey stepped away from the Ringmaster. The Ringmaster, for the first time in a long time, said nothing.
The Dryad spoke in a voice like a cold autumn wind rustling through empty branches. “We may have granted you permission to some of our trees, Ringmaster, had you asked.” It stepped across the ash, closer to the man. “Now it is too late for that.”
The Ringmaster looked at Bailey, at the forest behind the Dryad, at the ash. Anywhere but at the creature. “Please, I was just trying to feed my family.”
“How many lies will you tell today, Ringmaster? You have no family to feed and had enough to feed five families if such was required of you. But you fed no one but yourself, and wanted more besides. Is that not why you stole the trees, why you lit the fire?”
“I didn’t do it alone. There were others – “
“There are always others. But they obeyed your commands.”
The Ringmaster narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hands, reverting to form as a dealmaker. “Oh, OK, look I’m sorry. I can cut you in. How much money is it going to take to set this right?”
“Money is of no use to us here, and it is far too late for that.” The Dryad raised an appendage, the spider-like hand at the end of it alighting with flames. The twigs of it blackened and withered as it reached for the Ringmaster who recoiled in sweating fear. “What you have taken from us will one day be renewed. We will heal.”
