Machine (2 page)

Situated, finally, near a rather rough-looking fellow who dozed beneath a small folding table, Will slanted a glance at what the rickety table held. Ah, stacks of handbills and fliers, and two different playbills from local theaters. The man, apparently hoping to make a few pennies, must have gone around to Purinton businesses and offered to display their advertising materials on this busy day.

Just as Will reinserted his cart’s handle into its slot, a sudden, sharp glare made him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. The rays of the rising sun must have glinted off some reflective surface: a jewel on a woman’s hat, perhaps, or a pane of glass, or some other salesman’s wares. He stepped to the right and cracked his eyelids open. Surprised by what he saw, he opened them wider.

A gleaming mirage shimmered into view at the far end of the plaza. Blinking against its celestial shine, Will paused for a moment to regard it.

The circus must be in town
, he thought. What other explanation could there be for the presence of an enormous, largely gold wagon decorated with telescoping tableaux and other fantastical relief carvings? A centered cartouche on the wagon’s side bore a peculiar inscription in scarlet:

The Spiritorium

Siphonings

&

Cleansings

Whether part of a currently traveling circus or purchased from a liquidated circus, the wagon obviously housed a
flimflam man. And there he was now, setting a tall stool on the ground beside his “Spiritorium” and taking a seat.

What the devil was he wearing? And where were the horses that had pulled the wagon? The man must have paid some boys to take them to the public stable. Plenty of urchins loitered outside the circus every day, hoping make a bit of pocket change.

“Another bleedin’ spiritualist, huh?”

Will started at the voice, which carried the yeasty odor of stale beer. A gaunt, ill-shaven man in a shabby suit stood beside his left shoulder. Dust coated his hair as well as the dented derby he held. He slapped the hat against his thigh, pushed out its depression with his thumb, and carelessly set the hat on his head. As an afterthought, he gave a few desultory swipes to the sleeves of his jacket.

“It appears that way,” Will said.

The man, who must’ve been the one sleeping beneath that wobbly table, nodded and spat off to the side. “The country’s lousy with ’em. But I gotta say,
this
ghosty man knows how to draw crowds.”

He was right. People had already begun to gather round the wagon. But none of the gawkers approached the man who kept watch, like a sinister sentry, beside it.

“Where the hell does a person get rags like that?” asked Will’s temporary neighbor.

Will raised and lowered his eyebrows. “Maybe he had them specially made. Or bought them from a theatrical troupe.”

“Could be. ’Cause they sure don’t look proper for
this
part of the world.”

A flurry of goose bumps covered Will’s arms as he studied the wagon’s keeper—an older man, possibly in his late fifties or early sixties. Defiant black curls tinseled with silver escaped from beneath his headwear. It wasn’t a conventional hat but more like a black velvet pie, slightly rounded at the crown, with thick gold-and-purple braiding circling the edge. Hanging from either side were lengths of the same fabric. They draped, scarf-like, over the man’s ears and across the broad shoulders of an equally dark, unusual jacket.

His clean-shaven face seemed to have an unusual tint—pale lilac?—but that was likely an illusion caused by light playing over the hat’s purple rim. Will couldn’t make out his features very clearly, but shadows suggested chiseled bones beneath a taut sheath of skin.

His eyes were black hollows. Fathomless.

“I just might wander over there and see what he’s about. Name’s Ernest Muggins, by the way.”

“Oh, uh….” A few seconds went by before Will saw the hand that was thrust toward him. Only then did he realize to whom the name
Ernest Muggins
was attached. “Will Marchman.” The proffered hand was rough and dry, but Will didn’t mind. Three of the four men he’d been with in his life had workingman’s hands, Fan included.

“You sell here regular?”

“Yes. On the boardwalk.”

“Thought so. You look soft.”

Will didn’t even wonder, as he normally might have, if the remark carried scorn. At the moment he was wondering what “siphonings” and “cleansings” meant. And why that ostentatious wagon made him uneasy.

A
LTHOUGH
BURNING
with curiosity, Will had no time to investigate the Spiritorium. He had to set up his display.

The cart was an ingenious structure, custom built by a Taintwellian carpenter named Emil Shickersaw. On one of its shorter sides, a wooden pocket held an advertising banner (which Will couldn’t use today), product leaflets, wrapping materials, two extra batons, and a linen towel for wiping any sweat or grime from his face and hands. On the opposite side, a small fold-down platform was hitched. Will unhooked and lowered the platform, then unlocked the top of the cart. Its longer sides proclaimed, in three angled lines of gilt and royal blue script,
Wm. Marchman, Purveyor of Fineries & Toiletries for Ladies & Gents.

A stepped wooden pyramid was nestled within this portable store. Through some mechanical wizardry Will didn’t understand, involving pieces of hardware Will couldn’t name, the structure could be pulled up with relative ease and secured in place, making it visible to passersby. It was on the display pyramid’s “shelves” that Will arrayed his products. He’d already set them up for today.

His last order of business was to unlock a metal drawer affixed to the bottom of the cart, wherein his money box was concealed. If he became too busy, he’d simply put the coins in a pouch he could secure around his waist.

Potential customers—women mostly, but several men as well—had already begun to mosey over, drawn by the pyramid’s twinkling temptations: lockets hanging from silk ribbon or fine, tightly braided gold and silver yarn; tortoiseshell hair combs; jet and seed-pearl brooches; cameos imported from across the sea. The men gravitated toward necessities rather than adornments: shirt studs and shaving razors, watch fobs and mustache wax. Both sexes eyed the macassar oil, tooth powder, and scented pomades.

Business quickly became brisk. Buyers continually interrupted Will’s pitch. In fact, he didn’t even have to generate interest in his products; they were selling themselves. He soon had no choice but to secure the money pouch around his waist. At least it didn’t disrupt the smooth lines of his clothing, for the frock coat fell over it with room to spare.

Happily doing what he did best, aside from loving Fanule Perfidor, Will lost track of time.

Above the crowd’s noisy bustle and the cheery music issuing from a small, lively band, a voice boomed. “’Tis the Feast of All Saints, recognized and obscure, the holy dead, the martyrs to goodness and purity!”

Will jerked his head up and almost dropped the change he was handing to a pretty young woman who’d purchased a pair of earrings. For a moment, he’d thought it was Fan’s voice he heard.

But no, of course not. The man who was swaddled in foreign finery stood on his stool, proclaiming. How did he manage to balance while he shouted? He was much taller than average and wasn’t young.

“I am here to honor them, and to help
you
honor them! Nay, I am here to help you and your loved ones join their ranks when you leave this earthly realm!”

Will’s trade slowed as his customers, too, turned toward the voice.

“Come to me, you who’ve been misled by false gods spun from lies! Come to me to discover the miracle Machine that works magic.” The dark declaimer swept an arm toward his wagon. “Or, if you will, the magical Machine that works miracles—delivery from evil, and subsequent salvation! And the boundless contentment that comes from assurance of both!”

“What is he talking about?” a middle-aged woman asked a man who appeared to be her husband. When he shrugged indifferently, she looked up at Will, as if he were familiar with every huckster on the plaza. “Whatever is he talking about?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, ma’am.” Although it did sound as if the richly garbed man was just another peddler of still another religion. Cults were always springing up—other preachers were probably here as well—but none had yet captured the public’s imagination enough to unseat the reigning Sensorians.

Will concluded another sale as a pair of jugglers wandered past his cart. He tried to keep an eye on the balls they tossed about, lest one or more go astray and ruin part of his inventory. And keep an eye on the browsers who ogled his goods, lest one or more try to filch his products. And glance occasionally at the strange fellow hawking redemptive, machine-made magic.

“If you long for happiness, come to me! Come learn what my Spiritorium can do to ensure your goodness in this life and your bliss in the next! Learn how I can purge your homes and your days of whatever rot blackens them, and bring you peace of mind!”

More people drifted his way.

“How can a blasted machine do all of
that
?” Standing at the foot of Will’s small platform, Simon Bentcross held out two handfuls of products for Will to tally up and wrap: hand-milled soap, a boar-bristle hairbrush, a bottle of sandalwood oil, and a tin containing essence-of-violet cachous.

“Why, hello, Mr. Bentcross,” Will said, grateful for the diversion. He smiled when he saw what his friend held. Those weren’t the types of items a muscular man wearing battered brogans and a soiled brown slouch hat would normally buy.

“What are you smirking at, Marchman?”

“I’m not smirking. I’m amused, is all.”

“By what? I don’t recall making a joke.”

“By how you’ve changed.” Still smiling, Will handed Simon his change and arranged his unlikely purchases on a square of brown paper, which he carefully folded around them. “When we met, you didn’t give a deuce if your hair looked like a bramble patch and your skin smelled of day-old sweat.”

Furiously, Bentcross blushed. Will still thought him quite handsome, especially when his lowered eyelids laid those dark lashes against the soft, rosy ridges of his cheekbones.

“As I recall,” Simon murmured, “you didn’t give a deuce either.”

Now it was time for Will’s face to redden. Remembered hunger, little more than a shade of its old self, blew through him. After securing the bundle with string, he handed it to Simon. “It’s quite astonishing,” he said, to himself as much as to his former lover, “how we’ve
both
changed.”

Bentcross smiled. “All it takes is the right incentive. Speaking of which, why isn’t your spouse here to serve as your shill?”

Will stiffened with indignation. “I don’t need shills,” he said haughtily. “My products are of the highest quality.”

“Unlike that distillation of bodily fluids you used to sell.” Simon’s eyes glinted above his smile.

Although slender, Will was actually an inch or two taller than the burly Bentcross. He took a few steps forward until their chests nearly touched. “I don’t appreciate your humor.” To Will, Dr. Bolt’s Bloodroot Elixir was no laughing matter. The mere thought of it still twisted his stomach in anger and revulsion.

Bentcross rolled his eyes. “Oh, back off, lad. Don’t you realize you’re not nearly as intimidating as Perfidor? If
you
tried punching me, the only person you’d end up hurting would be yourself.” Simon slyly skated his fingers over Will’s knuckles. “Your hands weren’t meant for fighting… although they’re mighty good at other things.”

The touch shivered up Will’s arm. He tried maintaining his glare but it was hopeless. Simon did have a damnable measure of animal magnetism, and they did have a steamy history together, albeit a short one.

Sighing, Will relaxed his attitude. “You know, you’re a likable fellow and all, but when are you going to consider what you say before you say it? It would spare your face a good deal of abuse.”

Simon tossed his bundle in the air and caught it. “I’m a plainspoken man, not a blasted diplomat.” He winked. “It’s part of my charm.” He continued to dawdle near the cart as Will served another customer. “So where
is
your occasionally better half?”

Will waited until his customer walked away. “Working. He hates being indolent.” By the end of last winter, Fan had grown restless. Being the Eminence of Taintwell hadn’t been keeping him busy enough. He’d begun to miss physical labor.

“Ah, that’s right. He’s gone back to plying his stonemason trade. I just might have a job or two for him.”

“I know he needs repair work done on his transport,” Will said, “so maybe you can barter.” It was a common way of doing business in Taintwell.

Simon had just opened his mouth to respond when a stentorian voice, pushed along by a sea breeze, rolled over them.

“You foolish people forfeited both your sense and your spiritual well-being when you abandoned the Old Way, the
true
way! What are Sensorians but hollow hedonists, faithless fornicators, sin-stained sodomites?” The voice came from the owner of the Spiritorium.

Will and Simon exchanged weighty glances, and Will knew Simon’s thoughts mirrored his own: that these words hearkened back to a time they’d hoped was long gone, a time when a man who was fond of men, and a woman who was fond of women, had to keep their proclivities a closely guarded secret. Just last week, Will had seen an elderly gent in Purinton with a ragged S-shaped scar on his forehead. Likely carved there when the man was younger, the letter stood for “same-sex,” and the bearer had at one time been shunned for committing crimes against nature.

“I ain’t never heard a spiritualist talk like
that
before,” remarked Ernest Muggins. “Looks like ghosty man got his sights set on us good-for-naughts.” As if he weren’t aware of them, his fingers grubbed through a tin can he’d set on his table. When they emerged empty, he cursed. A piece of paper tied around the can with a bit of twine bore uneven block letters scrawled in pencil: FOR ME CHILDERNS SHOOS.