The New World (18 page)

Eyes and ears, I remembered Mr. Vale saying, eyes and ears—and decided I should use my own very carefully now, in case he failed us. But it was hard, because Natty and the Rider loomed so large in my mind, dragging my thoughts where I did not want them to go. And hard because of the crowd. The children scrambling at the front. The men and women jostling behind them. Here was an ancient pioneer with a scar on his forehead and sunken cheeks. And here was a priest with a brown cassock and a face as dark as an olive. And here was a pretty lady with corn-colored hair, and a husband who never took his arm from her shoulder. And here was a Negro still wearing the striped apron from work. And here was Mr. Vale as good as his word, twisting and snooping. And here was…

The Rider snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Look,” he told me, and I saw Boss taking long strides toward the center of the ring, with the Spectacle bobbing along beside him; a tremendous burst of applause and cheering broke over them both.

I thought I must check the crowd once more, just a glance to be safe.

Which is how I came to see—not a face.

A flurry.

A crease in the air, and gone.

It might only have been a child fidgeting.

I turned back to the ring. Boss was handing the Spectacle up the steps of her platform, where she arranged herself at the center of light so her dress sparkled like star-beams and her head gleamed like a miniature planet.

The audience applauded more loudly than ever, and as its roar subsided Boss seized on the chance to regale them, shouting above their hubbub, introducing himself and the rest of us, explaining how we would entertain them, and how they would want to reward us when he was done, oh yes, reward us most generously.

I hardly listened to a word of it.

Was he here already, Black Cloud? Would he strike at us now in the open?

Boss finished his welcome and Clown stumbled toward him trailing his whip. The audience foamed over again. His yellow costume! His red nose! His staggering and sliding! The whip tingling his ears!

I scanned the faces again but always nothing.

Not there.

Natty sighed; I was worrying too much. The Rider was more interested, leaning toward me; I smelled the horse-sweat on his skin. What had I seen exactly? And where?

Surely I had been wrong again, wrong about Natty and him. The Rider was a friend to both of us, nothing more.

But Clown had staggered offstage and there was no time for that. Now it was our turn, our show, and Boss was waving us forward. The brightness! My body turned almost to liquid. Every footstep, every smile, every frown felt so enormous it could surely be seen from the moon.

“Come on!” Natty managed more easily, and was already arranging the hoops, the bow, and the quiver she had filled with arrows, while the Rider took his pony to the edge of the ring and began to walk slowly forward, then to trot, then to gallop, with the feathers of his headdress fluttering out behind him.

“You see,” said Natty, marveling under her breath. “No need to be so careful, Jim, no need at all. We're perfectly safe here. Safe as houses.”

Natty passed me the wooden hoops and I set off around the ring to place them on the ground as I had seen her do. It was easy work but it distracted me, and so did the crowd—the children shrieking and laughing, their parents suddenly like children themselves, and loudest of all a drunken old cowboy whose face was pitted with smallpox scars. All he wanted to know was: why was Natty so dark? Was she an Indian—she looked a bit Negro? And what was the Rider up to? Why was he galloping round like that? And what kind of Entertainment was it really, just watching an Indian ride about in circles?

I should have let it pass but looked up and told him in my smartest English voice to watch his tongue, just to surprise him, then cut back to Natty again as the Rider swooped toward us, collected the spear she gave him and settled it in his right hand. Our performance began.

The Rider was circling much faster now and crouched forward like a cavalryman, using the point of his spear to hook the rings from the ground, then flick them to Natty again. It was done in a moment and even the fool cowboy was impressed, saying how clever this Rider was, how nimble, and that was one good thing about Indians, their way with horses. Then it was time for the next trick, and Natty had passed the Rider his bow and the arrows, with the crowd roaring him on. Then roaring again when Natty lifted the target to cover her face, then again when the Rider galloped faster still, and the tail of his headdress swam out behind him, and he took the reins of the bridle between his teeth and fitted an arrow to his bow and drew his bow tight. Then loudest of all when he fired the first arrow, and it struck the target near the center so Natty (who was only a foot or two away from me, and revolving on her heels to keep in line with the Rider) gave a gasp and lurched backward a step.

By the second arrow, and the third, and the fourth, I felt dizzy myself, because I was turning on my heel as well, keeping pace with Natty. But not so dizzy that I stopped looking. Not too dizzy to forget the crowd, with their gasps and squeals and squeaks and sighs and laughs and open mouths and closed mouths and hands pressed over their mouths. Not too dizzy to forget Mr. Vale and check he was keeping his word, being our eyes and ears.

I had just whizzed over his face and seen his blink and twist and blink, then passed to his neighbor, a quiet face and a soft cap, when suddenly I was back with Mr. Vale again. His voice drew me, and his jumping up, and his pointing: “Ah!”

I looked—and saw a ripple like the rings in water where a fish rises. And in the heart of the rings I saw a face.

A smear of skin.

Then nothing again.

But a shadow.

I kept on staring. At the gap between faces where this face had been. At the cheerful smiles and wide eyes. I swept on, then back, then on again to the next small gap, then on again to the next…And there he was. Black Cloud and no doubt; Black Cloud and the Painted Man. His mouth like a pike. His shoulders gold in the lamplight. The rise and fall of his chest, as though he was panting.

Natty had not seen him. “Keep turning,” she hissed, because I must keep pace with the Rider, who flashed through my sight and away. I ignored her. I folded my arms over my chest to conceal the satchel hanging there, as though I expected Black Cloud to snake out an arm twenty feet long and snatch it from me.

But he was not looking at me. I was not important to him any more, because I was already as good as dead. He was concentrating entirely on Natty. He had seen a way to destroy her first and he would take it.

I understood this when I saw him making a space for himself, rolling his broad shoulders and sticking out his elbows. Lifting his bow with an arrow already set to the string. Levelling his eye along the flight. Aiming at Natty. This was the plan, perhaps made here and now, perhaps earlier when he had crept up to watch the rehearsal. The plan to make it seem as though the Rider had misfired and killed Natty. And it was a good plan, because the crowd would think there had been a mistake, an accident not a murder, and this would allow Black Cloud to melt away, but only when he had fired a second time, and struck me down in the panic. When no one would notice him ripping the satchel away from me.

A good plan, but the Rider saw it.

Without seeming to take his eyes off Natty, and with his pony still galloping, and his stern face creased with the effort, and the lights still dazzling, and the crowd still booming, he swept closest to Black Cloud when the danger was greatest. When the arrow that would have killed Natty was about to fly. At exactly the same moment, he swivelled round on his pony and let loose his own arrow, which hummed toward Black Cloud and struck him in the shoulder, or seemed to strike him, or at any rate shocked him so much that he jerked backward, and released his arrow quite uselessly, high above the heads of the crowd, where I saw it dwindling into the star-flow and, if everyone had been quiet, would have heard it clatter down useless onto the stones of the wilderness.

Was this a part of the Entertainment? The crowd thought so, and began shouting even more loudly, and clapping, and encouraging the Rider—while others knew better what they had seen, and screamed just as loudly “No!” or even “Murder!” although it was not clear who or where the victim might be, because nothing was clear now, nothing at all, not even to those who had seen most, not even to me, who watched Black Cloud drown in the crowd and drag the Painted Man after him, sinking away and leaving the ripples to cover the place he had been.

No, not even clear to me, who in the second that Black Cloud vanished was suddenly spun round and lifted up from the ground, because the Rider had finished his business with the bow and arrows, finished with the Entertainment entirely, and hauled me onto his pony so I was seated behind him, gripping him around the waist, pressing forward with everyone screaming and shrieking and flapping their hands until we reached Natty and dragged her up as well, and sat her in front of the Rider and then, squeezed together as we were, and with the pony grunting beneath our combined weight, we drove forward again and broke through the crowd, out into the wide open air and the hush, not knowing whether we were still in danger or not.

I looked behind me, still holding tight to the Rider and feeling his skin damp with sweat. Everything in Cat's Field was chaos. The clear O of the ring had disappeared, with the crowd barging and weaving because they knew what had happened, or had no idea, and in either case thought that an arrow was about to strike them, any one of them, any moment. Bonnets and hats, bare heads and whiskers, fists and faces all jumbled together. Most in the torchlight, some in shadows, some in darkness. And at the center, with his arms high above his head, Boss in his bright red topcoat, bellowing fit to burst and ordering everyone to keep calm, to return to their places, to wait for the show to continue, to please make their donation before leaving, if leave they must.

Bellowing and then beseeching, with a note I had never heard in him before, a note of panic, because in the midst of everything the Spectacle had stayed at the top of her platform, catching the juddering lights, thinking perhaps this stampede had come to admire her, to be close to her, to love her, and so must be greeted with another wave of her hand, another smile, another caress of her moon-scalp.

“My love! My love!” Boss shouted, as another shuddering wave ran through the crowd.

“Dear heart!” he bellowed again, as the platform supporting the Spectacle began to tremble. “Have a care! Have a care!” But it made no difference. The platform began to sway. It began to tilt. It began to fall—and the Spectacle his beloved, still splashed by the glow of the lamps, slithered and shuffled and scrabbled and finally tumbled from sight, with her white dress and its many spangles and stars striking the darker faces and shoulders and arms and legs and feet of the crowd beneath her like an explosion of sea-spray.

I did not hear Boss after this because the noise smothered him. But I saw him crumple, then also vanish as he plunged down to make his rescue.

Then I saw nothing more, because the Rider had torn off his headdress and Natty's as well, and dug his heels into his pony, who carried us as quickly as he could through the wilderness. In a dim landscape of rocks and bony trees, with the stars our only light.

“Do you think he's still here?” I asked, speaking over the Rider's shoulder so Natty could hear me.

The Rider himself answered. “He is here.” His voice seemed slow even when he spoke fast. “He has come a long way.”

“But you wounded him,” I said. “Or you killed him.”

We were trotting now, heading round in a wide arc toward the town, and our poor suffering pony bounced the words out of us.

“Not killed,” the Rider replied. “He is not dead.”

“You're sure?”

“Besides, there is the other man.”

“Will they follow us?”

“They will—for the necklace.”

I hesitated for a moment. How did the Rider know about the necklace? I had not shown it to him. Natty could not have shown him. But she had told him, she must have. And perhaps other secrets as well, about our life together.

“And for other reasons,” the Rider went on.

“What other reasons?”

“Don't ask him that,” Natty said; she was leaning forward and clinging to the pony's neck. “Ask him where we are going.”

The Rider did not mind her interrupting. “To fetch the other ponies,” he said. “We cannot stay here.”

“Suppose they're waiting for us?” I asked. “At Mr. Vale's?”

“They will not be there,” said the Rider; it was as though he had seen everything that lay ahead of us and it was all preordained. “They will ride off, then come back when they are ready. You have robbed them, remember.”

“Can we give it back?” Natty asked, the same question as always.

“The insult remains,” said the Rider. “You cannot change that.”

“I know.” I felt full of apology and the Rider heard it, but it did not lessen the sting of his words.

“You know?” said the Rider. “I do not think so. You say you are sorry but you do not regret.”

“I am sorry, I am,” I pleaded, like a child.

The Rider did not rebuke me again. “I understand,” he said. “You want the necklace. You like it. You think it is yours now—it is always the same with treasure, it is…” But he had said enough, because there was nothing more to be gained, and for the next several minutes we continued in silence over the dark ground, coming at length to a point where we could enter the town at a good distance from Cat's Field, and reach our stableyard along empty streets.

We rode very cautiously all the same, creeping from shadow to shadow and still not speaking. But thinking. In my case thinking: the Rider has left the Entertainment and joined us now. But is it just his way of staying with Natty? No, he is our friend equally; we have him to ourselves now.

When we reached the stableyard and dismounted, and went to untie our own ponies from their stalls, Mr. Vale lurched out from the back door of his hotel.

“You startled us,” said Natty. “That's not kind.”

Mr. Vale ignored this. “I ran back,” he wheezed, raising his eye-shade and wiping his forehead. “I could not let you go without another word.”

“You mean you want us to pay you?” said Natty.

“No, nothing like that!” exclaimed Mr. Vale. “I'm not concerned about that—your Boss-man will pay, tonight or another night. There will be other Entertainments. Not with you, but other Entertainments.”

He made the prospect seem dismal and hung his head; although I was desperate for us to be on our way, I took pity on him.

“You want to see, don't you,” I said. “You want to know the reason for all our trouble.”

Mr. Vale looked up and gave me a weak little smile. “A glimpse,” he said. “That is all I want.”

“Here, then.” It sounded impatient but Mr. Vale did not mind. And when he saw me hand the reins of my pony to Natty, walk straight up to him, and open my satchel and hold it toward him, his smile turned into astonishment. I did not take out the necklace. I only offered for him to look inside the satchel, and when he bent forward I teased it away, so he would know not to touch. Although the stableyard was lit by nothing more than lamps burning inside the hotel, the silver caught their glimmer and flashed into his eyes.

“Aaaah!” Mr. Vale gave a long sigh. “Thank you, Mister Jim. Thank you.”

“Well, you have seen it now,” I told him.

“I have seen it.”

He shied away and before I had closed the satchel I looked at the Rider.

He held up his hand. “I do not need to see it.”

He was so definite I did not ask again, only nodded and tucked the satchel inside my tunic. Besides, Mr. Vale was all busy-ness now, scurrying around the yard, handing Natty our two blanket-rolls, and a flask, and a parcel of food, all the while muttering under his breath. “Such brightness,” I heard. “Such brightness, such brightness.” And then, “Not for that butcher. Never for him. I looked for him, though. I waited. I looked for him. And you two only children still. No blame, I am sure, no blame, no blame. But you must be on your way, no matter what. On your way now!”

It was an extraordinary performance, as though seeing the silver had driven him out of his wits. At another time I might have thought I should stay and comfort him, to bring him back to himself. In the event I did not even thank him for what he had given us.

“Are you ready?” I called softly to Natty.

“Ready,” she said, handing me back the reins of my pony, and with that we rode out into the street, where I turned to look at Mr. Vale for the last time. He had retreated to the threshold of his hotel, and for once in his life was standing straight, with his long arms hanging down loose. I was glad to leave him, but thought he was brave to make this place his home, when he knew that one day he would die here, and be buried in ground that was not his own.