Elephant Song

SIXTEEN

Later that evening, after the bulls were paraded tail-and-trunk around the ring, Little Will sat in the blues between Packy and Shiner Pete, surrounded by the other bullhands and residents of the town of Miira. Fish oil torches lined the edge of the ring and the outside edge of the stands while in the center of the ring a large fire of logs was started. When the log fire was burning brightly, Spats Skorzini entered the ring carrying a long, wooden staff.

"Laydeeez and gentlemen! The Ring of Tarzak welcomes one and all for The Season!" The stands rocked with applause. When the noise died down, the man in the ring lowered the stick. "I am your master of the Great Ring of Tarzak, Spats Skorzini."

More applause, acknowledging both the death of Ringmaster Sam and the acceptance of Ringmaster Spats. Spats bowed, then pointed at Warts Tho. "For our first attraction tonight, Warts Tho and the record keepers of Momus!"

To loud applause, Warts came down from the blues followed by Waxy Adnelli from Miira, Arcadia Joe Wimple from Kuumic, Spook Tieras from the town of the same name, Bunion Paul Foote from Porse, Angela Dear Burack from Dirak, Honey Buns Wagner from Ris, Hooks Javorak from Sina, and Luscious Leona Washington from Ikona. Warts read to the audience from a prepared list.

"I have compiled the figures for Momus supplied to me by the other record keepers. This past year, there have been ninety-one marriages, two hundred and three deaths, and two hundred and fifty-one live births. The population on the Central Continent now stands at one thousand, nine hundred and four." He lowered the paper for an instant. "With all these marriages, I expect we'll break two thousand by The Season the next."

Little Will heard Poge Loder's voice calling out from the back of the blues. "What about this marryin' thing, anyway?"

Warts lowered his papers. "What about it?"

Little Will turned around and looked up to see Poge standing, frowning, and scratching his head. "Well," he began, "it don't seem proper somehow for you bookkeepers to be marryin' folks. It's not like you was judges, or even a chaplain like Little Joe."

Warts held out his hands. "Marriage is a human ritual. It makes no difference to me who officiates, or even if the ritual is performed at all. However, those who do want a ritual seem to want a record made of the event; and the record keepers keep the records."

Waxy pointed up at Poge. "Are you going to start up again?"

Poge's shoulders moved up, then down. "Waxy, I'm not tryin' to start up any trouble. It just seems you bookkeepers ought to be called something with a little more class."

"Like what?"

Poge thought for a moment. "Maybe justice of the peace?"

Little Will heard a bellow coming from the opposite side of the blues. "Like hell!"

She turned and saw boss canvasman Duckfoot Tarzak get to his feet: "A name like that's liable to put ideas in people's heads. We don't want any jaypees on this planet." He pointed around at the stands. "Don't you remember the number of crooked jaypees the show had to pay off? You call those bookkeepers jaypees and the next thing you know, they'll be issuing permits, making laws, and hiring coppers to push everybody around." Duckfoot Tarzak resumed his seat.

Whitey Etren, mime from Tarzak, stood and addressed the ring. "I don't think we ought to be hasty in dismissing the idea of law and government. What are we supposed to do about the criminal?"

Duckfoot stood and faced Whitey. "Put his trunk on the lot."

"Exile?"

Duckfoot held out his hands, then lowered them. "Call it anything you want. You got a sticky-fingered fellow, we do what we always do. Either he comes up with the goods, you take it out of his hide, or his trunk is on the lot until he coughs up."

A voice called from the Ikona section of the blues. "What about murder?"

Duckfoot shook his head and scowled at the speaker. "Who is that? Bungo?"

"Yeah."

"Where've you been for the last twenty years, Bungo? Out on the lot. Out on the lot until the bum coughs up the goods. Now you ex somebody, the goods you gotta cough up is somebody's life, isn't it?"

The one called Bungo scratched his chin. "Sounds like a long time out on the lot."

"Damn right." Duckfoot faced the center of the ring. "Look, there's a whole continent west of here without a soul on it. All you rubes who want to be kings, coppers, or government paper wizards move out there. We'll hang a plague sign all around you and be done with it!" Duckfoot resumed his seat.

Waxy jabbed Warts in the ribs with his elbow. "Don't look like we're gonna be jaypees, do it?"

Warts sighed, shook his head, then looked up at Poge. "Do you have another suggestion?"

Poge held out his hands. "Maybe preacher, minister—something like that. Or maybe chaplains."

Waxy laughed, "Dammit, Poge, what in the hell're you using for brains? Me? A Bible-thumper?" Laughter filled the ring.

"Excuse me." The ring hushed at the sound of the strange, quiet voice. Turtlehead Agdok moved his shell into the ring from the Tarzak section of the blues and parked it next to Warts. Turtlehead's tiny red eyes peered out from beneath his shell up at Poge. "Upon my planet of Wallabee, the nest historians perform the record-keeping and make the nuptial agreements. They are non-theistic and possess no powers of law."

"What're they called?"

"They are called historians. The word in my language is phreest."

Poge nodded. "Priest. That sounds good." He sat down.

Waxy jabbed Warts in the arm. "I'll be goddamned if anybody's gonna call me a priest! I'm no—"

Warts held up his hand. "Turtlehead said the word was freest."

Turtlehead shook his shell. "No. That's phreest. P-p-p-p-h-h-r-r-reest."

Waxy and the other bookeepers wiped their faces. As he dried his hand upon his shirt, Waxy frowned at Turtlehead. "That's some juicy word."

Sergeant Spook Tieras, after drying his own face, nodded at Warts. "I think I prefer Poge's pronunciation."

Waxy faced the Spook. "You're from Ahngar. You don't even know what a priest is."

The willow-thin Ahngarian faced Waxy. "Would you rather be a p-p-p-p-h-h-r-r-reest?"

Waxy dried his face again. "That's not the point!"

A voice called from the blues. "Let's call 'em priests and be done with it! Let's get on with the show!"

More voices shouted agreement, quieting down after Warts held up his hands. "That's settled, then. The bookeepers will be called priests."

Waxy grabbed Warts's shoulder. "Now, just a damned second—"

Warts pulled his shoulder free and shouted at Waxy. "That is settled!"

Waxy snorted and spat upon the sawdust. "Well, dommi dommi, gobbi gobbi; I'm a goddamned priest."

"Excuse me," said Turtlehead, "the word is pronounced—"

The priesthood of Momus ducked.

The priests, then, in turn, recounted the happenings of their towns over the past year. The Miira-Kuumic Road was complete, Cross-eyed Mike Ikona was moving to the opposite end of the Emerald Valley to establish a fishing village on the coast of the Western Sea, since fresh fish couldn't be brought to the valley from Tarzak. The town would be called Anoki; Ikona spelled backwards.

The road gang from Miira had reported seeing huge monsters while working their way through the Great Muck Swamp, which was agreed to be the aftereffects of a bad batch of sapwine.

Kraut Messer, boss of the cookhouse gang from Tarzak, had arranged contracts for hostlers, horses, and wagons from Miira, sawdust from the mill in Porse, and special saws, tools, and fittings from Tieras. The object was to go to the frozen lakes up the White Top Mountains and bring back ice. For this he would need a road cut from where the Miira-Kuumic Road crossed the Upland Mountain Range through to the White Top Mountain Lakes. The road gang from Miira would get the contract.

Arcadia Joe Wimple reported that copper and iron had been discovered near Kuumic, and that Tiny Jim Whister, boss blacksmith, had moved to Kuumic from Tarzak in order to construct and operate a smelter. It did not appear feasible to use the natural fires from the desert for this purpose, no coal deposits had yet been found, thus charcoal would be obtained from beyond the Upland Mountains. Arcadia Joe himself would be going to establish the charcoal manufacturing facility at the point where Kraut Messer's road to the White Top Mountains joined the Miira-Kummic road. Tiny Jim had contracted for hostlers, horses, and wagons from Miira to move the charcoal to Kuumic, and to haul the finished metal goods to Tarzak and points north.

The wardrobe people in Tarzak had discovered how to make cloth from the downy fibres of the angelhair tree, and also how to dye the fabric and weave it into various colors. As part of the barter that Season, the cloth, already made into robes, would be exchanged for the goods from other towns.

On The Stand, the next night of The Season, they were in the blues and had just completed singing "The Song of Baraboo," music by Tarzak windjammer Flubber Mumenebe, lyrics by Tarzak clown Stubbles Joco Cruz. Warts gathered his priests before the fire. Next to them was a large wooden crate.

"My friends," said Warts, "Car Number One is all gone. Where it stood is nothing but scrub bush and grass. But as the car was being taken apart, it was discovered that the locker for the top flags was never emptied when the ship was being lightened. That is what this box contains."

He paused, then looked around at the crowd. "John J. O'Hara's dying wish was that you people—show people—would never forget who you are. The best—the very best—of all the circuses that ever existed."

A cheer from the crowd. Warts held up his hands.

"We've all been in the same clothes for two years now, and we're beginning to look a bit ragged. The young ones are growing, and it's time for new clothes. The wardrobe people, as you were told last night, have produced a large number of robes modeled after the fashion of those from Kuumic. The robe is loose, it fits any size, and it is both cool and can protect you against the sun."

Warts scratched his bumps, then folded his arms. "We must do many things to live; we only have The Season in which to be a show. In this box are the top colors. I want the division heads to come to this box and pick out the color and pattern that will forever after represent your show occupation. No matter what you must do between Seasons, your robe will remind both you and others what you really are. Who will be the first?"

The circle of troupers muttered among themselyes. Packy Dern patted Little Will on her shoulder. "You go out there and find out what the bullhands'll wear."

She looked up at the boss elephant man. "Packy, you should pick it. Not me."

He smiled and shoved her toward the box. "Go on."

Little Will looked back at Packy and Shiner Pete, then walked forward and stood before the box. She looked up at Warts. "I can pick any color?"

Warts shrugged. "You're first. Pick anything you want."

Little Will bent over and searched among the flags. When she had found what she wanted, she folded the flag and walked back to Packy and handed the flag to him. Packy unfolded the flag. It was maroon and gray in vertical stripes. Little Will put her arm around Pete's waist and smiled at Packy. "The gray is for the bulls."

Packy lowered his eyebrows. "And the maroon?"

"That's because it's pretty."

Several persons rushed to the box. Cholly Jacoby walked away with a solid orange flag. The Amazing Ozamund, magician, walked away with a flag of red and black stripes. Madam Zelda, the fortune teller, came away with a flag of solid blue. Others rushed to the box and removed whatever it was that their fingers could grab. After a few moments there was no one else around the box. Waxy Adnelli jabbed Warts in the ribs. "Hey, what about us?"

Warts frowned. "Harness men?"

"No. Priests! We're an occupation."

Warts rubbed his bumpy chin, then shrugged. "I never thought about it. It's not like we had real show jobs."

Waxy snorted. "You telling me that the route book isn't a job? That's what we do: the route book."

"I guess." Warts shrugged again, then pointed at the box. "Waxy, see what's left."

Waxy shook his head and went to the box. He looked into it, then looked back at Warts. "You lump-headed Pendiian! There's only one flag left!" Waxy turned, bent over, then stood up holding a flag of black and white checked diamonds. "If I have to wear this, I'm going back on harness!"

Warts walked over and looked at the flag. He looked up at Waxy. "I think it is just fine." He took the flag from Waxy and held it out to the rest of the priests. The comments from the Moman priesthood ranged from "Jesus H. Christ" to "Muthuh."

The Show began with a parade around the ring led by Packy Dern and Robber, with the rest of the bulls tail-and-trunk in tow. As the bullhands completed their circuit of the ring, they placed the bulls into the kraal and moved into the blues as Doc Weems honked out "The Entrance of the Gladiators" on the calliope.

Horse acts, jugglers, equilibrists, and clowns performed, but it was difficult to imagine a show without the up top crowd—flyers, wire-walkers, and iron jaw acts. But the up top acts require rigging, and they were still learning how to make rope. The Season the third promised to have a full show, complete with the upstairs crowd.

Even so, there was a bit of sparkle in The Season the second. Blue, silver, and pink sequins were on a few costumes. The sequins were made from the outside layer of freakfish carapace.

In her place in the blues, Little Will sighed and let her mind touch Shiner Pete's. "Everyone is trying so hard. But it just isn't the show."

Pete squeezed her hand. "Close your eyes and listen."

Little Will closed her eyes. The scream of the calliope filled her hearing, while the smells of people, bulls, horses, and food filled her sense of smell. She could almost taste cotton candy.

The fabric—the spirit—was still there. What reality could not provide, imagination could. Pete's thoughts touched her again. "Remember what Waxy said. You can't kill the show."

She kept her eyes closed, listened, and recalled the many stands on many planets. City after city, transformed for a moment into the fantasyland of the show, the company, the circus. She felt the tears dribble down her cheeks, then felt Pete's gentle touch wiping the tears away. He spoke out loud. "You can't kill the show."

She put her arms around his neck, hugged him, and then laughed.

On the morning of Teardown, Little Will gently removed Pete's arm from around her shoulders and stood up. The sky was cloud-dotted, but the day promised to be clear and not too hot. She looked down at Pete, then turned and went to check on Reg. She made her way into the bull kraal, found Reg, and stroked the pachyderm's trunk. "Is everything all right, Reg?"

The bull snorted and nodded her head. Little Will checked to make certain that Reg and the other bulls were secure, watered, and fed. When she was finished, she climbed the kraal fence and headed back toward where Pete and the other bullhands slept. Half of the way there she heard angry voices. She frowned and walked around the outside of the Ring blues until she saw Duckfoot Tarzak towering over the tiny Pendiian, Warts. Duckfoot was wearing a brown and tan robe that didn't quite reach to the middle of his thighs.

Duckfoot jabbed his massive hands at his own chest. "Look at this, you lumpy moron! Am I supposed to run around half naked?"

Warts held out his hands. "We'll just have to come up with a bigger robe for you, Duckfoot. I'm sure wardrobe can come up with something. They have plenty of cloth."

Duckfoot stabbed the Pendiian in the chest. "Dammit, Warts, if people're goin' to insist on namin' this town after me, I don't want to be made to look like a fool!"

"I understand..."

Little Will walked up and looked at Duckfoot's knees. The boss canvasman scowled at her. "What're you lookin' at, sprout?"

Little Will looked up at Duckfoot and grinned. "Sheer dee-light." She turned and walked back to her bedroll and husband, laughing.