She turned back to the crowd below. “Do you want to live?” She paused. “Are you willing tofightto live?”
The answer came softly at first, her own troops calling back. Gradually, more voices joined them, the new soldiers joining in, their shouts boosting the confidence of the others until the cry ran through the fort.
Gareth moved up behind her, his fingers sliding around her waist, his touch ice-cold now.
“You gave them hope,” he said. “You gave them a chance.”
She nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.
The Girl in the Carnival Gown
We’re riding our bikes to school when the carnival passes, and with a shared look, the three of us decide we don’t really need to go to school today. Trailers clunk and shuffle along the dusty road. Dismantled amusement park rides lie jumbled in unrecognizable pieces. Ragged tarps cover other trailers, leaving us vying to peek through the holes. Across each vehicle, a banner proclaims Blackrose Carnival! Opening Tonight! No specific information is given, the banners recycled for every stop, all of them tattered, one nearly ripped through. In our flyspeck town, we know only carnivals like this, tiny operations that arrive unannounced for Friday night and depart Sunday morning, on to another town, indistinguishable from ours.
We pedal madly after the procession, as if we could somehow lose them along the half-mile downtown stretch. As expected, they pull into the supermarket. The owner will go inside and negotiate with Mr. Cole, hoping to convince the old man that he should paythemfor the sheer glamor of having a carnival in his parking lot. He’ll listen, and then he’ll demand a hundred dollars for the inconvenience. They’ll haggle, but in the end, Mr. Cole will be counting his five twenties and ordering his staff to set up food stands out front to take advantage of the hungry crowds.
We drop our bikes beside the supermarket and lope toward the collection of trailers. Reggie strides off on reconnaissance. His twin brother, Ray, follows me, Def Leppard blasting from his Walkman headphones.
I’m cutting behind a trailer when I spot a dog. It’s a huge beast, a mastiff crossbreed bound by a rusty chain that barely allows it room to turn around. When the dog spots me, it whines and lies down, head on its paws. There’s no sign of a water bowl despite a blistering June sun baking the asphalt. Bare skin flanks the dog’s studded collar where its fur has rubbed away. Scars crisscross its back.
I hunker down and croon under my breath, and the dog whines again.
Reggie strides around the corner, saying something, but the slap of a door cuts him off.
“Hey!” a man shouts. “You trying to get your face bit off, boy?”
I rise, and he realizes I’m not a boy. His gaze slides over me in a way that raises my hackles. Reggie sees it, too, and he surges forward. A look from me stops him. I pull the bill of my ball cap down, as if that’ll hide me.
The carnie is in his early twenties. A scraggly mustache and beard tries and fails to hide a serious lack of dental hygiene, and his hands and hair compete to see which can hold the most grease.
“We were wondering—” I begin.
“Step away from that dog, girl,” the man says. “She’s a killer.”
I look at the dog, head still on her big paws, brown eyes turned up to me.
Reggie snorts. “Yeah, she’d kill for a good meal. When’s the last time you fed her?”
The man steps toward him. “Maybe you wanna grow up a little, boy, before you talk like that.”
Reggie’s twelve, but he’s already nearly as tall as the man, lean and lanky, and he fixes the carnie with a stare that has the guy hesitating midstep and then planting his foot hard, as if to avoid withdrawing.
“You boys get on out of here,” he says. “If your cute little friend wants a look around, I’ll give her the tour.”
I’m ready to cut off Reggie’s inevitable retort when a man walks around the trailer. He’s in his forties, wearing an old-fashioned waistcoat pulled tight over his belly. He beams with the smile of a used-car salesman running behind on his monthly quota.
“Well, well, our first customers,” he says. “You’re a little early, kids, but I hope Charlie here was properly regaling you with the delights to come.”
“We were just talking about your dog,” I say. “She hadn’t gotten her water yet, and I was offering to fill her bowl, knowing how busy you are setting up.”
The man tilts his head, his eyes glinting with something deeper than his salesman’s smirk. He studies me a moment. Then he says, “Charlie will obtain the necessary water and kibble. And I’ll find you a few game tickets in thanks for noticing poor Dixie’s plight. I’m Theodore Blackrose, owner of this fair festival. Barker, ringmaster, magician, and…” He winks with a look at the departing Charlie. “Carnie wrangler.”
“I’m Esmerelda,” I say. “But everyone calls me Ezzi.”
“Ezzi?” His brows shoot up in mock horror. “What a tragic debasement of such a magnificent moniker. I shall call you Esmerelda. And your companions?”
“Reggie,” I say because he really hates being called Reginald. “And his brother, Raymond.” Ray nods without taking off his headphones. “Game tickets would be great, sir, but we were actually wondering if you might have some work for us.”
“How can I refuse such a polite request? The extra help would be immensely appreciated. Come this way, please, and I’ll take you to our foreman.”
