Meet Me in the Middle of the Air by Schaller Eric

Author:Schaller, Eric [Schaller, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Undertow Publications
Published: 2016-02-02T05:00:00+00:00

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“Isn’t that enough?”

John, curled on the ground into the fetal ball that had protected the more delicate parts of his body, if not his head, back, and ribs, recognized the voice. “Irene.”

It was the fortuneteller.

Irene had positioned herself in front of John Bull, between him and his victim. John Bull was a head taller than Irene and easily twice her weight, but he stepped back when she reached out a hand as if to rest it upon his shoulder, a gesture that but for the glittering claws might have seemed friendly. “I need him,” she said. “You should know that.”

John Bull spit upon the ground, making sure to avoid Irene’s shoes. “Then take him. There’s not enough left to put up a decent fight anyway.” He then stepped to the side as if to leave but, detecting some spot of cleanliness on the otherwise unblemished coat of filth that John now wore, scuffed his boot along the ground to spatter John about the shoulders with dirt. “I’m sorry I can’t stay here to continue our conversation, but I have an appointment in the boxing tent.”

“Haven’t you forgotten something?”

“Yes?” He arched an eyebrow.

“Your knife.”

“Oh, that.” John Bull hauled John to his feet by his bound wrists. “Stand up. The little Queen’s here on a rescue mission. You may wish, come tomorrow, that you’d never been rescued.”

“Why?’

“Those she rescues make a habit of disappearing.” John Bull sawed through the cords that bound his wrists. “Or maybe they just know enough to stay out of my way. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if I see you again?”

John did not bother answering.

“Come with me,” Irene said. When John failed to respond, she took him by the elbow and steered him like she might a blind man.

Her trailer was a short walk from the exhibition tents, part of a ragtag village of carts, wagons, tents, and other trailers, where a dog barked at their approach and where, when John stumbled across a fire pit and knocked the cooking spit into the ashes, the pigeons caged nearby broke into hysterics.

“You’ve got to watch where you’re going, love. I think maybe they recognize you.” Irene tittered at her joke. “It’s this one. Over here. Now brace yourself for just a moment. Mama’s got to unlock the door.”

The front boards of Irene’s trailer were painted red and yellow, and the canvas stretched across the frame, once white, was now a yellowish gray. Inside, the trailer was so packed with her belongings that even Irene, small as she was, must have found it difficult to maneuver. For John, in the dim light, it was almost impossible. Irene tugged and John ducked beneath hanging bunches of dried thyme, rosemary, and roses, his shoulders gathering fragrant powder from where he brushed against them. He kicked something that rattled across the floor, then something soft, a pillow.

“You can lie down here.”

He settled himself onto a blanket, its scratchy wool calling to mind the one he had discovered when he woke after his first night at the fair.

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