A horrible aroma assaulted her nostrils and an ink-covered hand gave her one of the evil-smelling maps of Momus. The aroma moved on and she studied the lines and smears that represented the planet upon which she was sitting.
As she studied the map, the defeated faces around her fell into a collage of other impressions: the geological fault that had done away with a week's work in the Snake Mountain Gap, Goofy Joe at the fire talking about fighting ghosts, Packy crushed at seeing his temporary shelter turned into a permanent home, Shiner Pete saying that you can kill troupers and you can kill animals, but you can never kill the show.
On the map was represented the huge geological rift that extended from the harbor at Tarzak straight north off the end of the Central Continent. The formation had no name. All of it came together in her head: the place, the situation, the mood, what the name should be. It was also clear to her who should say the name. She closed her eyes and searched the crowd with her mind. When she found the one she was looking for, she planted the name.
"Ah-hah!"
Everyone looked toward the source of the exclamation. Cholly Jacoby, the tramp clown, sprang to his feet and walked quickly into the clearing. He stood next to the fire, held up his map in order that he could read by its light, then he lowered the map to his side. He looked around. "Blacky?"
The lithographer stood and walked over. "What?"
Cholly stabbed at the map with his finger. "What's that?"
Blacky shrugged. "I don't know. It's sort of a mountain. Leadfoot drew it that way."
Cholly nodded. "I see. I see." As Blacky returned to his place, everyone faced their maps toward the fire to try and see what had captured the clown's interest. Cholly turned toward Leadfoot. "Leadfoot, what is this thing?"
Leadfoot got up and walked over to the clown. He looked to see where Cholly's finger was pointing. "Oh. That's a long geological rift in the planet's crust. It begins a little north of Tarzak here"—he pointed—"and goes straight north right off the end of the continent as far as I could see from low orbit. See, it's a big fold in the crust. Maybe plates in the planet's crust grinding together. It probably means frequent quakes near the fault zone."
Cholly looked at Leadfoot. "How come it's not named?"
Leadfoot looked at Cholly, eyebrows upraised. "What was I going to call it?"
Cholly snorted. "It's obvious." He looked around at the faces. "Arnheim's Fault."
For ten full seconds the troupers stared at the clown; then the laughing began. Between their tears they borrowed the few pencils that remained, or used pieces of charcoal, and marked the name on their maps. True, it was Arnheim's Fault. Cholly bowed, doffed the derby that he no longer wore, then retired to the circle.
That night they ate, drank and sang the show songs. Dr. Weems borrowed a hostler and four horses, went to Number One, and came back with the calliope. The boiler was fired up, and then the shrieks of the steam music joined the laughter, the combination forever putting to rest the ghost of Karl Arnheim.
The next three days saw clowns, jugglers, riders and others perform their acts. Little Will proudly stood beside Reg as the bulls paraded tail-and-trunk around the crude ring of cut logs on The Show. On Teardown, the fourth day of The Season, the troupers headed back toward their towns to continue all the mundane tasks of day-to-day survival. No one could ever be accused of saying that they looked like one, but they were once again a show.
TWELVE
Upon returning to Miira most of the road gang repaired harness, tools, and wagons. The remainder constructed a piling, beam, and plank bridge across the Fake Foot River, opening the southern route around Table Lake, the first step in constructing the Miira—Kuumic Road. Daybreak of the morning following the completion of the bridge saw the bullhands lead their charges from the kraal to the bridge against a hushed background of harness jingles and the low grumble a planet seems to make when more than one elephant at a time walks.
The bulls were clucked to a halt, the soil of Momus stopped shaking, and the grumble was replaced by the shouts, curses, profanities, blasphemies, obscenities, and other affectionate expressions of the hostlers bringing into line their wagons and timber-skidding teams. As morning's progress filled in the night's grays with color, Cookie Jo Wayne pulled up her cookhouse wagon at the end of the column.
Little Will's thoughts skipped among her memories of the many mornings standing in line with the bulls. There were the chilly mornings in the Snake Mountain Gap, standing next to Reg. But there were the many mornings sitting on Bullhook Willy's shoulders next to Ming. The shadows of the bulls had stood against strange skies of orange, red, purple, and blue. At times the air would be so dry her tongue would stick to the top of her mouth. Elsewhere, moving onto the lot of another strange city on another strange planet, the air might be so humid that everyone's clothes were drenched before the sun peeked over the horizon. On one planet, every morning was greeted by flurries of fat snowflakes that would melt as soon as they touched the ground.
She looked at her gold-tipped bullhook and remembered her father putting Ming through her paces. Both bulls and bullhands were killed, or just grew old and disappeared. But the more the show changed, the more it became to her a fixed place in a constantly changing universe. She turned, looked down the line of bulls, and watched Ming until the waving of a hand caught her attention. Shiner Pete was climbing into the harness wagon.
"All ready to go, Little Will?"
She waved back. "All ready." She turned to Reg and petted the bull's shoulder. "Are you all ready, girl?" Reg snorted and nodded her head.
"Little Will?" She looked forward and saw Packy motioning with his hand for her to come on. She walked up and stood next to the boss elephant man as he held out his map, and pointed at the lines and scribbles that had been entered upon it by the trailblazing gang. "What the hell does that say?"
She glanced at it, then looked up at Packy. "It says, 'Soft area. Follow the north trail.'"
Packy slowly shook his head as he looked again at the map. "Well, I guess it's my glasses instead of Short Mort's writin'." He looked back at Little Will. "You think you can read this map, follow the blazes, and push Reg at the same time?"
"I think so."
Packy rubbed his chin, then pointed toward the bridge. "Then when we get across the bridge, move Reg to the front end. I don't want us rollin' into a quicksand bath because my glasses don't work so good."
Little Will took the map. "What did Mange say about your eyes?"
"He's a damned vet." Packy dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand, then raised an eyebrow and glared at Little Will. "And don't you go peekin' inside my head—or anyone else's—without permission. Hear?"
They both turned and looked as Waxy Adnelli came from the door of his house and walked up to Packy. Waxy looked past the bridge toward the southern edge of the lake, then looked back at Packy. "You about ready?"
"About."
Little Will observed Waxy's apparently permanent frown. "Good morning, Waxy."
Waxy shook his head. "I'll let you know."
"Is something wrong?"
Packy studied the town of Miira's record keeper. "Waxy, you do look sort of in the middle of something sticky."
Waxy snorted, rubbed his chin, and pointed his hand toward the south. "Turtlehead came up from Tarzak last night. You know what Warts has me doin' now? I'm supposed to interview everybody and record their remembrances of the show."
"What's wrong with that?"
"With the old wheeze population we got, do you have any idea how long that's goin' to take? And Warts wants copies before we go down to Tarzak for The Season next. What am I supposed to record on? Blacky Squab hasn't sent any more paper up here in more'n a month. I'm already keepin' notes on the damn walls."