The Shadow Dancers of Brixton Hill

Willson Nicole
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 Contents

THE SHADOW DANCERS OF BRIXTON HILL

Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
A tale from the Cemetery Gates anthology
Angels With Broken Wings
Afterword
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
 THE SHADOW DANCERS OF
BRIXTON HILL

Nicole Willson

The Shadow Dancers of Brixton Hill

Published by Cemetery Gates Media
Binghamton, New York
 Copyright © 2023
by Nicole Willson

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Cover Design: Carrion House

To Carl Theodor Dreyer

 Contents
Part One

Part Two

Part Three

“Angels With Broken Wings”

Afterword
Acknowledgments
 Part One
Brixton Hill, Virginia
April 1937

Lewis Oswald met me at Main Street Station in Richmond. His

dark eyes widened as he spotted me working my way down the front
steps of the enormous brick building, and his smile displayed more
teeth than I thought a human mouth could contain. A loose button
dangled from the sleeve of his black overcoat as he raised his bowler
hat to me.
“Why, Miss Montgomery! It is a surprise to see you here. I
expected your father.”
“Father is no longer up to making this journey now that Samuel
has passed. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.” I had
accompanied my father and brother on previous train journeys to
Brixton Hill, but this was the first time I had made the trip alone.
His lips were rough against my skin when he kissed my hand.
“My condolences on the loss of your brother. And I assure you, your
presence here is no hardship at all. But if I’d known I’d be meeting
you, I’d have brought some flowers. I feel so unprepared.”
My face grew warm. “That’s completely unnecessary. But thank
you.”
I hadn’t seen Oswald in a few years, and his narrow mustache
and goatee were now streaked with gray. Sunlight glinted off his gold
front tooth as he grinned. He picked up my brown leather suitcase
and led me through the crowd to his car.
“Has anyone told you you’re the image of your mother? I
thought you were her for a moment.”
“Yes indeed.” I heard that one rather often in my adult years, as
I’d inherited her dark hair, darker eyes, and oval face.
“So how is dear Eleanor?”
 “She’s holding herself together as best she can under the
circumstances. She sends her regards. As does Father.”
Oswald clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Poor Elly. No mother
should ever have to bury a son. And I’d have loved to see your father
again. But I’ve no doubt you’ll be as eager as him to sign my latest
students once they have performed for you.”
Montgomery’s Marvels, my father’s circus, had long benefited
from the acrobats, jugglers, and illusionists Oswald referred to us.
Once a performer with Montgomery’s, Oswald had become one of the
best trainers in the country. Due to his long friendship with my father,
he always gave us the first chance to sign the most talented of his
pupils.
And now he had trained a troupe of performers who could do
something so shocking and unique that he simply would not tell us of
their ability via letter or telephone, lest we take it into our heads to
find a way to duplicate their astonishing feat. Why, the Ringlings
themselves would be positively green with envy when these
performers debuted with us, he claimed. But we would only find out
what they could do when we visited his training center to see them
for ourselves, and not a moment before.
Oswald loaded my suitcase into the back of his black Ford sedan
as I climbed into the car. The tan interior smelled of citrus and stale
cigarette smoke. The station’s clock tower read 12:20 as we pulled
away.
The James River sparkled in the sunlight as Oswald drove us
over Mayo’s Bridge. Once we left Richmond, the city scenery gave
way to endless expanses of oak trees interrupted only by an
occasional farm or home. I glanced at Oswald and cleared my throat.
“Now that I’m here, I don’t suppose you’ll share anything more
about your latest students? We’ve been so curious about them.”
Oswald’s dark eyes twinkled when he glanced at me. The man
rarely missed a chance to perform, even if it was only for an audience
of one. He took an extra-long time to light a cigarette with a silver
lighter, and he exhaled a leisurely plume of smoke before answering.
“Kate, mere words could never do these performers justice. Just
wait a little longer and your patience and curiosity will be rewarded. I
assure you nobody in Baltimore, or anywhere else, has seen the likes
of them.”
Although Oswald had been born and raised in Virginia as far as I
knew, his voice carried a hint of a British accent that grew more
pronounced as he talked. He kept up a steady stream of questions as
he drove us to the small town of Brixton Hill, where his training
center was located. How were things in Baltimore these days?
(Business was picking up, but still nowhere near where it had been
prior to 1929.) How was my father’s health? (The good days still
outnumbered the bad, thankfully.) Whatever had befallen poor
Samuel, and so quickly? (Heart failure.)
We reached Brixton Hill in about an hour. I’d always found the
brick storefronts along the town’s busy main street charming during
past visits, but now several of them sat vacant and boarded up. Even
the open stores appeared to have few customers. The white concrete
fountain in the middle of the central traffic circle was dingy and
choked with weeds. People in threadbare clothing that looked too
light for the early spring chill wandered around the sidewalks,
watching us as we rolled past.
As a young man, Oswald had inherited his family’s stately home
and grounds. But instead of leaving the circus behind and joining one
of the many businesses his family owned, he erected a gymnasium
and a theater and opened his own training center. His property was
situated at the tail end of the main street, surrounded by pine trees
and separated from the rest of the town by a large iron gate. His
house, a shingled cream-colored Victorian with high dark brown
turrets, sat on a hill overlooking the center. A faded, weather-beaten
old barn stood at the far left edge of the grounds, well away from the
training center and the house.
When we exited the car, Oswald turned to me and displayed
those teeth again. “Are you tired from your journey, Kate? I can show
you to your room if you’d like some time to rest.”
Oswald stood close enough that the nicotine on his breath
enveloped me and I took a small step back. His dark eyes searched
my face as he spoke. His intensity unnerved me, and I decided to get
the reason for my visit over with, the better to return to Baltimore as
soon as possible.
“If it isn’t too much trouble, I would love to see your new talent
whenever they are ready. I’m more intrigued than ever now that I’m
here.”
His gold tooth glinted in the sunlight as he grinned. “Give us an
hour, please. The diner just to the right of the front gates is an easy
walk and quite adequate if you need refreshment while you wait.
Leave your bag here and I’ll take it to your room. When it’s time, you
can meet us in the theater.”
“Very well.” I handed my suitcase to Oswald and walked down
the gravel drive toward the gates, pulling my coat tighter around me.
Although the early spring afternoon was bright and sunny, the brisk
wind that day still carried remnants of a harsh winter.
The diner was a riot of gleaming surfaces, odors of frying onions,
and kitchen noise. A tired-looking waitress in a faded pink uniform
pointed me to a table by the front window and hovered until I
ordered my lunch. Other patrons turned to stare at me with creased,
weather-beaten faces and narrowed eyes, and I focused on cutting
my chicken sandwich and stirring my coffee until the others lost
interest in the strange woman eating alone. The chicken was salty
and dry and the coffee bitter, but they filled a need as I thought
about what might be coming later.
For I had not been entirely honest with Oswald.

***

When enough time had passed, I left the diner. A gust of cold
wind nearly blew my hat off as I returned to the training center.
Oswald had built a small red brick theater on his property for
auditions and for the exhibitions he sometimes held to showcase his
students. The yellowed marquee over the front entrance read
“COMING SOON” in large black letters, but listed no attractions.
The inside of the place had been designed to resemble the
elegant venues in big cities, but dust and moth holes marred the red
velvet drapes adorning the entrance into the performance hall. The
elaborate crystal chandelier I had seen on previous visits no longer
hung in the foyer. My footsteps echoed through the empty lobby.
The wooden floor inside the theater was scuffed and dull. Faded
black fabric shrouded the walls, giving me the feeling of being in a
large black box. Faint odors of mildew and cigarette smoke hung in
the air. Several rows of red plush seats led down to a stage empty
but for an upright piano at stage left and three square black cushions
lined up side-by-side on the floor, facing a large white screen. A
bright stage light hung overhead. The sounds of people walking
around and murmuring carried from backstage.
The floor creaked under my feet, and Oswald emerged from the
backstage area almost at once. He now wore a violet velvet
ringmaster jacket with gold buttons that strained a bit over his
midsection, black breeches, and knee-high black leather boots. In
contrast to his graying mustache and goatee, his slicked-back hair
was still quite black.
“Ah, Kate. Right on time. Excellent!” He walked to center stage
and gestured to the empty rows. “Please sit anywhere.”
I chose a seat in the center of a middle row.
Oswald positioned himself under the stage light, took a deep
breath, and threw his arms wide. When he spoke again, his voice
boomed as if he were addressing a sold-out house full of roaring
patrons.
“We’re so honored that you traveled all this way to see my
newest stars, Miss Montgomery. You will be very glad you did. What
you are about to watch has never been seen anywhere in the world. I
developed the idea from Egyptian mystics I met several years ago,
and it took many, many years of hard work and heartbreak to perfect
this astonishing act.
“Before we begin, please take note: You, I, and the performers
are the only ones in this theater. And the sole sources of light are
here and here.” He pointed at the ceiling and then the footlights. I
nodded.
“My assistant Mrs. Mildred Morrigan will be accompanying my
performers on the piano this afternoon. Mrs. Morrigan?”
 A tall older woman with a helmet of black hair in Marcel waves
emerged from backstage. She smoothed her hands over a dress the
color of cooked liver and took a seat at the piano. She opened the
sheet music on the stand and cleared her throat.
“And now, it is my pleasure to introduce Abigail, Camilla, and
Rose. The Shadow Dancers.”
Oswald hurried backstage. The lights in the theater dimmed, but
the footlights remained bright.
Three young girls emerged from backstage in a single-file line.
Their hair was pulled back in severe braided buns, and they wore
matching white tutus with pink tights and slippers. They put me in
mind of the young ballerinas in a Degas painting. At first glance, they
appeared completely identical. But as they positioned themselves in
front of the cushions, I noticed differences in hair color and height.
Each of them turned away from me and sat down cross-legged
on a cushion. Now I was looking at their ruler-straight backs and the
stark black shadows their bodies cast on the white screen.
For what felt like endless seconds, the three girls sat on their
cushions. They made no movement and no sound. I jiggled a foot.
Mrs. Morrigan launched into a piece I recognized from years of
music lessons as Mozart’s “Turkish March.” She played the piece
accurately, but with little speed and no finesse.
The girls remained seated on the floor.
But then their shadows stood, towering over them on the blank
white screen.
My breath caught in my throat. I turned to look for any possible
source of this bizarre illusion. But the theater behind me was
completely empty.
And then the shadows began to dance.
They linked their black arms together and moved in complete
unison, back and forth. Their elongated legs crossed and uncrossed,
and their heads turned to the music with smooth, crisp perfection
even as their owners remained still as marble on the cushions. My
pulse raced and I took a deep breath.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” So engrossed was I in this bizarre
performance that I hadn’t noticed Oswald approach in the darkness,
and I jumped.
“It is.” I spoke to him but couldn’t take my eyes off the
improbable sight onstage. “How on earth are you doing this?”
“I am doing nothing, Kate.” He sat down next to me. “These
amazing young ladies are able to manipulate their shadows all by
themselves.”
“But that’s not possible.”
He let out a deep chuckle and patted my arm. “You are quite
welcome to explore every nook and cranny of this theater if you
doubt me. Should you find any proof of stagecraft, I will compensate
you for your time and effort traveling here and send you on your way
with my deepest apologies. Feel free to take the stage to watch them
more closely. You will not distract my girls. Nothing can when they
are performing.”
Mrs. Morrigan launched into Mozart’s “Symphony No. 40 in G
Minor,” and the shadows twirled and leaped around the screen, their
black arms and legs moving in an elegant and precise fashion to the
music.
I rose from my seat and stared at the ceiling. But if there was a
stagehand lurking somewhere in those cobwebbed rafters and
projecting dancing shadows onto that screen, I could not find him.
Moving with caution in the dim theater, I walked up front and
stepped onto the stage, edging around the dancers until I could see
their faces. And a chill spread through my stomach.
The three girls, little more than children, stared at the wall like
pale dead-eyed dolls, lifeless and empty, their lips parted and slack.
They did not blink. They did not glance sideways to acknowledge my
presence. They were so still that for a moment I was unsure they
were actually alive.
Their eerie appearance reminded me of the time Father had
taken me to a fancy toy store for a childhood birthday. He thought I
would be delighted by the wide variety of dolls available for sale.
Instead, the rows of lifeless little bodies with their glassy blank eyes,
frozen faces, and gaping mouths disturbed me so much I cried and
begged to be taken home.
 These Shadow Dancers looked uncannily like those dolls. I
studied the girl nearest me until at last I detected the faint rise and
fall of her chest.
And then something else made me clutch a curtain in shock.
Their dancing shadows were fully detached from their bodies.
I scanned the theater behind them. Oswald sat where I had left
him, exhaling great clouds of cigarette smoke in the air and watching
my bemusement with a smirk. Again, there were no signs of
concealed projectors or anything else that could make sense of this
display.
How could this be happening? I glanced between the stone-still
girls and their kinetic shadows, but no obvious answer appeared. I
rapped on the screen where the shadows danced. It felt sturdy under
my knuckles.
I parted a curtain and walked backstage, expecting to find three
prima ballerinas being backlit onto the white screen. But several
dressing tables cluttered with powder and hairpins occupied the
narrow and otherwise empty space.
Defeated, I left the stage area and returned to Oswald, who
grinned so widely I thought his face might crack in half.
“Satisfied, Miss Montgomery?”
I took my seat. “I can’t figure out how you’re doing this. But it is
indeed an impressive illusion.”
“As I have already told you, it is no illusion, my dear.”
My pulse raced and something prickled at the back of my neck
as I watched the twirling shadows. I felt I was in the presence of
something unearthly, perhaps even unnatural.
Mrs. Morrigan reached the end of the Mozart piece and stopped.
With that, the shadows retreated at once to their owners’ bodies. The
girls rose, turned to face me, stepped around the cushions, and
curtsied, again in military unison. Their shadows followed their
movements exactly now.
What else could I do but stand and applaud? Their blank
expressions did not change as Mrs. Morrigan got up from the piano
bench and gave me an abrupt and unsmiling bow.
Oswald studied my face. “You are not convinced, Kate.”
 “This is an amazing performance, but there’s an explanation for
everything.”
He smirked and snapped his fingers at one of the dancers.
“Abigail? Come with us, please.”
The tallest of the three girls descended the steps from the stage.
Her eyes did not meet mine or Oswald’s when she reached us.
“Let’s go outside for a moment, shall we?” He led Abigail and me
out to the lawn in front of the theater. The afternoon sun loomed
behind us, and our own shadows stretched across the faded
brownish grass.
“All right, then. Abigail? This is my dear friend Miss Kate
Montgomery. Please dance for her.”
Abigail walked slightly ahead of us, stood still, and drew a deep
breath. Her pale red hair was pulled up toward the top of her head
and the sight of her bony, knobby back distracted me as she stared
at the grass. The poor girl looked like she had not had a decent meal
in weeks. Her shoulders slumped as if she carried the memory of a
heavy defeat, and I worried about her being outside on this chilly day
while wearing so little.
But then Abigail’s shadow stretched across the grass. It
pirouetted, broke completely free of her body, and leaped around the
lawn just as it had inside. The shadow capered and cartwheeled
through the pine trees, as wild and exuberant as the girl herself was
still and silent. My heart beat faster as I watched this bizarre display.
Oswald turned to me and tilted his head. “Are you satisfied now,
Kate? There is no trickery here, just those of us who have learned
how to master the intangible. Thank you, Abigail.”
Abigail’s shadow retreated to her body, and she turned to look at
me with blank turquoise eyes. Again I glanced around the area,
convinced Oswald had led us to this particular spot for a reason and
expecting to see some sort of projectionist hiding in the pines and
manipulating shadow puppets.
But I saw nothing that could explain this impossible scene.

***
 The tantalizing smell of roasting meat filled the halls as I headed
to Oswald’s dining room for dinner that night. His family’s large,
stately home had always been immaculately kept and well-furnished.
However, several pieces of antique oak furniture I remembered from
my past visits were missing, giving the place an oddly deserted feel.
Cobwebs clustered in the high corners of the parlor. The yellow paint
lining the walls was chipped, and a few faded rectangles in the paint
made me realize that several of the paintings I had seen on previous
visits were also gone.
But framed circus posters featuring Oswald in his days as a
tightrope walker still decorated the main floor. He had been popular
and quite successful until an injury, incurred either in a fall or in a
fight over money—I’d heard differing versions depending on who told
the story—ended his career as a performer. The vibrant posters
brought splashes of color and brightness to the barren rooms.
Oswald’s dining room still looked well-furnished. A white lace
tablecloth covered the walnut table. A burgundy and gold Persian rug
lay underneath it, and a portrait of Oswald’s mother, a pale and
beautiful woman with vivid brown eyes like her son’s, overlooked the
room.
Oswald poured us both red wine from the walnut sideboard.
Hettie, the elderly white-haired cook, began bringing in dishes shortly
thereafter. The serving plates shook in her knobby hands as she set
them on the table. She rubbed the small of her back and winced after
placing a heavy silver platter between us.
Over succulent roast beef and scalloped potatoes, Oswald
reveled in his triumph with the Shadow Dancers. But he would not
tell me how he had accomplished it, no matter how much wine I
plied him with.
“At least tell me more about these Egyptian mystics, Lewis.”
Oswald chuckled. “Really, Kate, I thought by now you’d be able
to recognize showmanship when you hear it. Do you believe
Egyptians—mystic or otherwise—pass through Brixton Hill very
often?”
My cheeks burned. “Then however did you learn to do this?”
 “I got the idea for this act from some monks I encountered in
Richmond many years ago, and that is all I am willing to tell you. Did
you know we humans use only a tiny percentage of the brain’s full
capabilities? With enough concentration and focus, anything is
possible. My girls are entered into my intensive mental training
program the second I acquire them.” His teeth were stained purple
when he flashed them at me. Even the luster of his gold tooth was
slightly dimmed.
I put my fork down. “Acquire them? What does that mean? What
do their parents think of this?”
He chuckled. “Poor choice of words, perhaps. And not all of them
have parents. When they do, I’ve persuaded the parents to...” He
stared down at his plate for a moment as if the appropriate words
could be found there. “Well, loan them to me, so to speak. They will,
of course, reap some of the proceeds when these girls begin doing
public performances.” More purple[JS1] teeth.
“How exactly did you persuade them?”
Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Times are very hard, you know. I
came across Abigail and her mother years ago on a street corner
right here in Brixton Hill. They wore little but rags despite the winter
cold. The mother was trying to get Abigail to dance for money from
passersby, but the little girl was having none of that. She hated to
perform, her mother said.”
He took a drink from his wineglass before continuing. “I assured
her I know a born performer when I see one, and I could break little
Abigail out of her shell. And she’d get room, board, and money of her
own. What parent would want to keep their child living in squalor
given such an opportunity?”
I shook my head. “And when they don’t have parents?”
“I took Camilla from the Brixton Hill orphanage. Don’t know if
her parents died or simply abandoned her, but the poor girl was
completely alone. Surely, giving these desperate children room,
board, and work so they can be productive citizens is a good thing.
Wouldn’t you agree?”
The casual way he spoke of these girls as if they were
commodities to be bought and traded for his benefit made my skin
prickle. Instead of answering him, I sipped the dry wine.
“Now. Speaking of recompense.” He dabbed some beef juice
from the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin and leaned closer to
me. “I’ve no doubt you want to sign these girls as soon as possible.
Shall we discuss my fee, Kate?”
Father had given me leave to negotiate a generous deal in the
belief that Oswald would, as he always did, introduce us to quality
performers.
And indeed, the Shadow Dancers were far more remarkable than
anything he had ever offered us. I still couldn’t believe there was no
trickery involved in the performance I had seen that afternoon. Once
word got out about the Shadow Dancers—and it would—
Montgomery’s Marvels would sell out every single performance. We
lost more business to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey every
year, as we just couldn’t compete with the size and spectacle they
offered.
But with the Shadow Dancers, we wouldn’t have to compete.
Already, I imagined the ways Father might stage them to showcase
their eerie ability to full effect. I could almost hear the crowds
gasping in shock and surging closer for a better view as the shadows
began their impossible dance.
And yet something about the girls and their situation did not sit
well with me. I couldn’t shake the memory of their blank faces
staring at their shadows and barely breathing. Abigail’s bony back
and the defeated slump of her shoulders lingered in my mind. If her
mother had truly said Abigail hated performing, I saw little sign that
Oswald had improved the situation.
And so I shook my head. “Not yet.”
He recoiled as if I’d struck him. “Not yet? But Miss Montgomery!
I offer you an act that literally nobody else in the world can perform.”
I had to be very careful not to offend him. He and Father were
friends of long standing, and Father would be quite displeased if I did
anything to spoil that relationship.
“I understand what you offer. But tomorrow, I’d like to see their
training conditions. Obviously, I must know what we’d need to
provide for them in Baltimore.”
 Oswald shook a finger at me. “Oh, you’re a wily one, but I’ve
already told you I will not divulge my secrets. You will not get my
methods out of me, no matter how charming you try to be.” He
winked.
I shook my head. “You don’t have to tell me how you teach them
this skill, of course. But I still need to see what preparations they
make and what they’re going to require from us.”
“Fair enough. You and your father will find them very easy to
manage. They are all so compliant! And they eat very little. They
need no more than a cup of broth and a small piece of brown bread
every day.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really? Don’t growing girls need more
nutrition than that?”
“I find that slimmer girls make more…elegant shadows.” Did he
perhaps glance over my own ample figure as he said that? “And
they’re not all growing girls. Rose’s fourteen, and she’s the youngest.
And Abigail just turned seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” I nearly dropped my wineglass. “But she still looks
like a child.” My niece Vanessa was three years younger than Abigail
but easily looked at least five years older than any of the girls I’d
seen.
“Kate, their performances need mental strength, not physical. I
assure you, they do not require much sustenance. On their birthdays
and other special occasions they’re allowed to eat what they like, of
course. But not when they’re training. Indeed, too much food weighs
them down, makes them sleepy. I doubt they would take extra meals
if you were to offer them.”
“Where do they stay when they aren’t performing?” I gestured to
the hallway. “Surely they don’t live in here.”
He laughed. “Good heavens, of course not. All those girls in this
house? Imagine the pandemonium! I’d lose my mind. Their quarters
are in the old horse barn. I cleaned it out and had it all remodeled for
them.”
A sudden gust of wind outside rattled the windows. As Hettie
cleared our dishes and brought out a bottle of port and small crystal
glasses, I thought of those girls trying to sleep in a drafty old barn in
the cold. And I shuddered, which Oswald did not miss.
“Come now, Kate. They’re perfectly comfortable. I saw Camilla’s
lodgings at the orphanage. Trust me—my barn is Buckingham Palace
in comparison. And Rose and her family were living under a bridge
when I first saw her. They are so much better off here with me.”
He tried for a tone of reassurance, but my sense of foreboding
only grew. He lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and sent a few puffs
of acrid tobacco smoke into the air before speaking again.
“If you wish to spend the day watching them, I have an idea,” he
said at last. “They have a private appearance tomorrow night, their
first one. They will be performing at a party for the Cutler family. Fine
people. Why don’t you stay an extra day and come with us? When
you see how they are received by an audience, I’m sure whatever
reservations you may have will vanish.”
He wagged a finger at me before continuing. “But you best hope
that someone else doesn’t make an offer on them before you can.
Someone with the Ringlings called here just the other day, asking if I
had any interesting new acts to tell them about. I can’t keep quiet
about the girls forever, you know. You may miss your shot.”
Father would indeed be displeased if this happened. Perhaps
watching the dancers tomorrow would put my mind at ease.
When we had finished our port, he led me up a wooden staircase
to a guest bedroom on the second floor and bade me goodnight.
The room was small and stuffy, and a faint odor of mothballs
lingered in the air. The moonlight streaming through the windows
projected shadows of trees on the wall. When I turned on the light, I
noticed several faded rectangles on the wooden floor, indicating more
missing furniture. The room still had a narrow bed, a red rug, and a
wardrobe. Faded flowered wallpaper peeled slightly from the top of
the walls.
The bed was stiff and unyielding, and I had a hard time dropping
off to sleep. A noise down the hall distracted me, the sound of
footsteps followed by a creaking floorboard over and over. Step-step-
step-creaaak. This could not be anyone other than Oswald, and I
wondered what would make the man pace back and forth in his room
at such a late hour.
At some point during the night, I dreamed the shadows of the
tree branches on the wall began to move. They stretched down,
swarmed over my body, and wrapped around me like steel arms,
trapping me in the uncomfortable bed as Oswald stood over me,
smoking and staring, completely unmoved by my pleas for him to
help free me.
And then the Shadow Dancers bent over me, their faces replaced
by those of the dolls that had terrified me so as a child, their dead
eyes glittering like ice in the darkness as the shadows tightened and
squeezed the breath out of my body.
I woke up gasping in the unfamiliar room, trying to thrash free
from a tangle of blankets.
 Part Two
The next morning, my head felt heavy from lack of sleep as I
washed and dressed. In Oswald’s dining room, Hettie served me a
breakfast of eggs, toast, and weak coffee. My host was nowhere in
sight.
“Will Mr. Oswald be joining us?” I asked Hettie.
“I don’t think so, miss. I believe he was up rather late last night.”
She rubbed her lower back again.
I thought of the creaking floorboards as I stirred some milk into
my coffee. “Oh? Doing what?”
“I don’t inquire about his business. I imagine he’s thinking about
what comes next. Always trying to outdo himself with the acts he
trains. Going to be hard after this one, I reckon.” She chuckled.
“Have you seen his dancers perform?”
Hettie shook her head. “No, miss. But he’s told me all about
what they do. And they take their meals in here, of course. Dear little
things, but so quiet. Nothing like I was at that—”
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat knock at the front door startled both of us,
and Hettie pressed a shaking hand to her chest. Her watery gray eyes
widened as the visitor knocked again.
“Oh! Excuse me for a moment, Miss Montgomery.” She
swallowed hard and left the dining room as the knocking sounded yet
again, even more forceful this time. And then the doorbell rang three
times. Surely all the noise would stir Oswald, I thought. But I heard
no sounds from upstairs.
I knew that Oswald’s visitors were none of my business, but the
insistent knocks and Hettie’s obvious worry piqued my curiosity. I
eased my chair back from the table until I had a view of the front
door as Hettie swung it open.
A broad-shouldered man in a tailored green plaid suit and a
brown fedora strode into the foyer without waiting to be invited in.
He was a full head taller than Hettie and stood so that he was nearly
toe-to-toe with her.
“Morning, Hettie. I need to talk to Mr. Oswald, please.” His voice
was a low rasp.
“He…he’s not in, Mr. Thompson.”
“Oh? You sure about that? Because his car’s out there.”
“Then I suppose he didn’t take it where he was going.” Hettie
raised her chin.
Mr. Thompson folded his arms over his chest and glared down at
her. “Hettie? Are you lying to me?”
She returned his glare, though her hands still trembled as she
clutched her apron. “I would do no such thing. Mr. Oswald isn’t in.”
“Where’d he go, then?”
“That’s his business. Not mine. Or yours.”
The corner of Thompson’s mouth turned up. “I disagree, Hettie.
His business is my business. I’ve been a very patient man, but your
boss is pushing my limits. Shall I wait in the parlor until he returns?”
“No!” Hettie took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t know
when he’ll be back. You might be waiting a while.”
“Fine with me. I’ve got nowhere to be and all day to get there.
And that velvet sofa sure looks comfortable. That another family
heirloom?” The fellow pointed toward the parlor and smirked. My
pulse sped up and I thought about what I could do to intervene
between Hettie and this unpleasant visitor.
“Please, Mr. Thompson. When he gets back, I’ll let him know you
were here. That’s the best I can do.” Her voice quavered.
Thompson shook his head and leaned even closer to Hettie.
“You had better.”
He turned toward the staircase, looked upstairs, and raised his
voice as he addressed the upper floor. “If I don’t hear from Mr.
Oswald today, I’ll be back here again this time tomorrow. And if he
makes me come back, I will not leave this place until I’ve seen him.”
With that, he turned back to Hettie. “Make sure you tell your
boss that, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
 “All right, then.” Thompson raised his hat to her and left the
house without another word. Hettie pushed the door shut behind him
with shaking hands and leaned against it for a moment before
returning to the dining room. I moved my chair close to the table
again, as if I hadn’t just been spying.
Hettie’s face was stark white. Her hands shook so much as she
brought me a glass of orange juice that I feared she’d spill it
everywhere.
“Hettie? Are you all right?”
This was a silly question, and she looked at me with narrowed
gray eyes. “You must have heard most of that. Thompson’s got a
loud voice.”
“I couldn’t help but overhear some of it, yes.”
Hettie sighed. “Well, put it out of your mind. That’s just a fellow
Mr. Oswald does some business with in town. It doesn’t concern you.”
“I see.” I studied my coffee before speaking again. “Is there
anything I can do to help?”
She paused on her way back to the kitchen and turned to me.
Her chin trembled as she spoke.
“He’s counting on the success of this new act of his to turn
things around, Miss Montgomery. You’ll sign his dancers, won’t you?
He’s worked so hard.”
I didn’t know what to say to her. “I…I’m sure I will.”
She went into the kitchen without another word, and I stared
down at my food. I forced down a few forkfuls of scrambled egg to
be polite, but my appetite was gone.
Outside, I shielded my eyes against the sun. The air was still
chilly and breezy as I left Oswald’s house and headed to the
gymnasium, a low, flat brick building behind the theater. Recorded
music and Mrs. Morrigan’s raspy voice greeted me when I opened the
heavy front door. Several trapezes hung from the rafters, and folded
blue mats leaned against the dingy plaster walls. Colorful posters
featuring some of Oswald’s past students lined the large, spacious
room. Odors of sweaty feet and cigarette smoke lingered in the air.
The Shadow Dancers, dressed as they had been the day before
in white tutus and tightly braided buns, stretched at a barre that lined
one wall and then executed pirouettes, leaps, and tour jetés across
the dull wooden floor. Mrs. Morrigan stood by them and barked out
instructions.
Their physical movements were no less graceful than those their
shadows had produced yesterday. But as before, their faces were
blank. They went about their practice in a dull, joyless manner, with
none of the chatter or giggles I remembered from my own days as a
young girl in dance classes.
Mrs. Morrigan, whose hair looked unnaturally black close up,
greeted me with a sharp nod but no words.
“Why do they need to warm up physically for a mental
performance?” I asked.
She scowled. “Because they must call on muscle memory in
order to reproduce those movements during the performance.” Her
tone indicated she found my question ridiculous. I’d heard a bit about
Oswald’s flinty assistant from Samuel, who once said “The Statue of
Liberty smiles more than old Mildred.” Mrs. Morrigan was a family
friend of the Oswalds, and Oswald put her to work as his assistant
after her husband passed away. Her pinch-lipped, sour face gave no
indication that she enjoyed her work with him.
The dancers’ three black cushions were lined up facing a white
backdrop toward the far end of the space, and a floor light sat behind
them. As there was no piano in the gymnasium, Mrs. Morrigan played
a recording of Mozart’s music on a Victrola. She paced back and forth
like a caged panther behind the girls as they sat on the cushions and
projected their shadows on the white screen in front of them. Her
words to them were few and held no warmth.
“Camilla!” Mrs. Morrigan barked at one point. “You are not
focusing!”
I didn’t know how she could tell which shadow belonged to
which dancer, but one of them had none of the energy I had seen the
previous afternoon. That shadow, perhaps a bit smaller and slighter
than the others, appeared to struggle to keep up with the group. It
kept slipping down the screen and taking on the form of its seated
owner before springing up and rejoining the dance.
“I can’t help it,” Camilla said.
 “What on earth do you mean, girl?”
“She isn’t feeling well, Mrs. Morrigan,” said Abigail. “She was up
sick last night.”
“Well, she can rest tomorrow. Tonight is far too important. Wake
up, Camilla!” She shook Camilla’s bony shoulder so hard the poor
girl’s head wobbled on the thin stalk of her neck, and I winced at the
sight of it. Camilla’s shadow danced with somewhat more energy
after that, although it still appeared a little out of sync with the
others to my eye.
Although I was witnessing an astonishing feat, a sight few
people in the world would ever believe possible, I found little
enjoyment in the presence of these unhappy girls or their hectoring
instructor. I walked around the gymnasium, examining whatever I
could find to take my mind off the unpleasant spectacle.
A framed promotional poster in vivid primary colors sat propped
against a wall, advertising “THE AMAZING SHADOW QUARTET.” I
opened my handbag and took out my spectacles so I could get a
better look at it.
The illustration was not quite accurate. The dancers, far more
buxom and scantily-dressed than their real-life counterparts, grinned
at the viewer while their shadows extended behind them and
performed arabesques.
But a quartet? There were four girls on the poster, but I had
seen only three here.
The front door crashed open. I jumped at the sudden sound, but
the Shadow Dancers did not stop.
“Ah, Miss Montgomery!” Oswald entered the gymnasium, his long
black coat sweeping behind him. The overhead light glinted off his
gold tooth as he smiled and clutched my hand in his damp palms.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?”
“I did.”
“Excellent. And good morning to you, Mrs. Morrigan.” Her arms
were folded across her chest and she did not return his greeting. “Is
everything going all right today?”
“Camilla says she’s not feeling well.” Mrs. Morrigan glared down
at the girl, whose shadow continued to look out of sync with the
others.
He sighed. “Of course this would happen on a vitally important
day for their careers. Girls? Take a break.” He clapped, and the
shadows retreated from the screen. The dancers remained
motionless and silent on their cushions.
Oswald walked over to the girls and hovered over Camilla. “Now
what is this about? Is it stage fright? Are you a bit nervous about
tonight?”
Camilla examined the scuffed wooden floor. Her voice was so
soft and faint I strained to hear it. “I think something I ate yesterday
disagreed with me, sir.”
Oswald shook his head. “Does anyone else have an upset
stomach?” His question was met with silence.
“Well, you all eat the same thing, so it can’t be the food.
Performance nerves, then. You must skip your afternoon meal. After
tonight’s show, you may have a late supper upon our return if you
wish it.”
The idea of any of these undernourished children being denied
food made my heart sink. And as if she knew what I was thinking,
Camilla burst into tears.
Oswald glanced sideways at me before speaking. “Camilla? Must
we do this now? We have an important visitor.” But the girl continued
crying.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. What’s the matter?” Oswald rolled his
eyes to the ceiling.
“I don’t want to perform tonight,” Camilla said through hitching
sobs. “I don’t feel good.”
Oswald pinched his lips together in a thin line, and his nostrils
flared before he spoke again. “Am I understanding this correctly? Are
you suggesting you should skip tonight’s performance—your debut,
no less—over a mere stomachache, Camilla? Have you so little sense
of responsibility to your fellow dancers? Or to me?”
The girl’s knobby shoulders jerked as she covered her damp face
with her hands and sobbed. Oswald folded his arms over his chest
and scowled down at her.
 “This is your life from now on, Camilla. You cannot refuse to
perform just because you’re a bit under the weather. Why, one time
back when I worked for Miss Montgomery’s father, I slipped during
practice and broke a rib the day before the first performance of the
season. Do you know what I did about it? I taped up my chest and
went out on that tightrope the next night as expected.”
He bent over the crying girl and wrenched her hands away from
her face before continuing. “And it felt as if someone jabbed a knife
in my side with every breath I took. But I did it anyhow. And do you
know why? Because the audience was counting on me. Homer
Montgomery was depending on me. And the show must go on.”
Camilla stared at the ground and sniffled while the other two
dancers remained as still as mannequins on their cushions, staring at
their still shadows on the screen. The girl’s distress made something
heavy sink in my chest, and I tried to think of a way to help her.
“Surely nobody will care that much if there are only two dancers
tonight?” I ventured at last. Oswald and Mrs. Morrigan both gave me
wide-eyed, disbelieving looks.
“Lewis, you have these young women who can command their
shadows to do the seemingly impossible. Will anyone in the audience
tonight think ‘Ah, that would have been so impressive if only there
had been three dancers rather than two?’ Why not allow her to rest?”
Mrs. Morrigan shook her head and Oswald’s dark brows met like
storm clouds gathering in the sky. “I will care, Miss Montgomery. I am
not, and have never been, in the habit of giving audiences anything
less than the absolute best, and the girl must learn to carry on if she
is to become a performer. Your father and Samuel would never think
of offering paying customers a sub-par performance. Surely you will
not, either?”
Camilla’s tiny voice piped up again. “It’s all right, Mr. Oswald. I
don’t think I could eat today anyhow.”
“Very well then. That’s settled.” Oswald moved to consult with
Mrs. Morrigan about costuming for the evening’s performance, and
they headed to a storage room. The girls remained seated on their
cushions.
 This situation disturbed me more by the moment. I walked over
to the Shadow Dancers and bent down beside them, keeping my
voice low.
“Are you happy doing this?” I whispered.
“Of course.” Abigail’s voice carried no enthusiasm. Camilla’s face
was still pink and blotchy from crying. None of them would look at
me.
I lowered my voice even more. “Is there anything I can do to
help you?”
“Mr. Oswald has already helped us quite a bit.” Abigail answered
me again, though her face remained fixed on the white screen. “We
didn’t know all the things we could do until he took us in.”
“This place is so much nicer than where I came from.” That was
Rose. They all spoke with the same flat, listless tone, as if they read
their responses from cue cards placed in front of them.
“How long have you been here with Mr. Oswald?”
“Years.” That was Abigail again. “The training takes a very long
time.”
“Would you like to come join my family’s circus?”
“Miss Montgomery? Is there something you wish to know?”
Oswald, who could move almost as quietly as a shadow himself,
hovered over me. He stood so close that the cigarettes and coffee on
his breath made me queasy.
“I would like to get a little better acquainted with your dancers.
Especially if they will be coming to Baltimore with me.”
“If?” He spread his hands out and shook his head. “My word.
Surely you aren’t still hesitant?”
“I only arrived here shortly before you did this morning. I’m still
getting a feel for their practices.”
He gestured around the gymnasium. “As you can see, they
require very little in the way of accommodation. They can dance to
any musical accompaniment you wish—or none at all. A few
cushions, proper lighting, a barre, and a blank surface are all they
need to warm up and perform.”
His voice held a sharp edge now. “And as you saw yesterday
with Abigail, they don’t even require that. The sun—or any other
source of light—is sufficient for an adequate display of their abilities.
How much do you think three girls need?”
Three girls? That reminded me of something. I pointed to the
framed advertisement propped against the wall. “Lewis, about that…”
He cut me off with a waved hand. “That’s nothing. I had been
considering featuring them in a small show here. But circumstances
intervened. I assure you that everyone who has ever seen them
perform is in this room.”
I would not let him distract me from what I really wanted to
know. “That’s fine, but I was curious about something else. That
poster mentions a shadow quartet, but I see only three girls here.
Where is the fourth? Are you perhaps saving her to refer to someone
else?”
All the bluster he’d displayed toward my previous questions
vanished in an instant. He glanced sideways, and his hand drifted up
to the back of his neck as he spoke. Behind him, Mrs. Morrigan
peeked out from the storage room.
“Ah. That’s a sad story, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
“Little Valerie was always a free spirit. So very talented, but the
most difficult to train.” He stared at the gymnasium floor. “Always
running off to explore the grounds when she was meant to be
practicing. I warned her many times to stay away from the creek
running behind the center. It is much deeper and more rapid than it
appears. But she would not listen.”
Something cold and slick clenched my stomach. “And…?”
“The groundskeeper found her under the water one morning.
The poor child fell in and her hair snagged on something in the creek
bed. She was unable to break free and save herself.”
A faint motion caught my eye and I glanced sideways.
Abigail sat still on her cushion. But her shadow extended over
the floor just enough that I could see its head.
The shadow head shook slowly back and forth. No.
Oswald followed my gaze, and Abigail’s shadow snapped back to
her body rubberband-like. Had I even seen what I thought I saw?
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
 “What a terrible story,” I said. “The poor thing.”
“I have yet to find a suitable replacement for her,” Oswald
continued. “And as you said earlier, surely a trio of girls who can do
these things is just as impressive?” That feral display of teeth that he
called a smile had returned.
“Indeed. But if I may ask, how would you go about finding a
replacement?”
He frowned. “You shouldn’t worry about that, Kate. If you were
to ever find one of these girls unsatisfactory, or if one of them should
become unable to perform, you or your father need only let me
know. And leave the rest to me.”
That reply made me curious about something else. “If you train
these young women to perform this amazing feat, you must have
some idea how to do it yourself. Why don’t you?”
His laugh held a nervous edge. “Believe me—if I could, I would.
But I’m afraid executing the shadow dance is far too difficult for an
aging brain like mine. It requires tremendous focus and
concentration. You must clear your head completely. A young,
unencumbered mind functions far better for this purpose than the
brain of one who carries several decades of memories and troubles.”
That, at least, made a certain amount of sense.
“Mr. Oswald?” Mrs. Morrigan emerged from the storage room
and stood by the Victrola with her hands on her hips. “Our practice
time is growing shorter.”
“Indeed.” He clapped. “All right, girls. ‘Turkish March’ to start
with. Kate, please feel free to view the practice from wherever you
like. As I told you yesterday, you will not distract my girls.”
Mrs. Morrigan restarted the Victrola, and I moved to stand to the
right of the Shadow Dancers. I wanted to watch their faces as their
shadows performed.
As they had yesterday, the girls stared at their shadows on the
white backdrop in front of them. Their lips went slack, their eyes
glazed over, their breathing slowed to the point it was almost
undetectable, and I was reminded yet again of a row of blank-faced,
terrifying dolls. As they entered their trancelike state, their three
shadows stood up, detached from their bodies, and began to dance.
 But then something even stranger happened. Camilla’s shadow
faltered for a moment. It staggered out from the linked-arm dance
the shadows performed. The other two shadows simply joined arms
and closed up the space where the third shadow had been.
“Camilla! Now what’s the matter with you?” Oswald shouted.
Camilla didn’t answer, and her blank expression did not change.
But her shadow bent and stretched an arm down from the wall to the
floor. A stark black hand extended across the dull wood until it
reached me, where it trembled at my feet in a gesture of
supplication.
As if Camilla’s shadow were responding to my offer of help.
I gasped and clapped a hand over my mouth.
“Camilla!” Oswald roared. He bent over and struck the girl hard
in the back of the head. The crack! made me flinch. All the while, the
other girls continued to stare at the wall in front of them. Their
shadows moved around Camilla’s bent-over form as if she were no
longer there.
Camilla’s shadow flew back to her body. More tears streamed
down her cheeks, and something hot and red pulsated inside me at
the sight of her distress. After a long moment, her shadow rejoined
the others in the dance.
I could not look at these lifeless faces for one more second. I
turned and walked away, intending to go outside. Perhaps I would
just walk straight home to Baltimore.
“Miss Montgomery!” Of course, the damnable Oswald would not
let me go so easily. He hurried over and stood between me and the
front door. “I do apologize for that. Camilla is not usually so difficult
to deal with. I assure you, she will not give you this much trouble.”
“Trouble?” I whirled around on him, half tempted to belt him in
retaliation for what he’d done to Camilla. “You just struck a sick child
in the head, Lewis!”
His hands flew up as if I had slapped him. “These great acts
require years of intensive training and unwavering discipline. It is not
always a pretty process. But it must be done to produce the best
results. Perhaps you were unaware of that, but your father and
brother certainly knew.”
 Had Father and Samuel really sat idly by while Oswald abused
his pupils in front of them? The performers he had referred to us in
the past were quite driven, but none of them seemed so unhappy, so
lifeless. From the jugglers to the acrobats, they all took pride in their
art and their ability to bring joy to people by doing things few others
could do. They loved to perform.
Had Oswald treated those performers cruelly too? Or was there
something else driving him to be so unkind to these unfortunate girls
now?
“I need a quiet place to consider things for a moment,” I told
him.
His dark eyes narrowed and he pointed at the storage room.
“That place is quiet. Do not take too long, Miss Montgomery. After
tonight, when the party at the Cutler mansion is over, word will begin
getting out about my Shadow Dancers. And I may well decide that I
do not wish to refer them to Montgomery’s Marvels after all. I had
thought you would be far more appreciative of my girls. Your father
would not be playing these tedious games.”
Without another word to him, I headed to the storage room. The
dust in the cramped space made my eyes water, but it was quiet. And
the closed door muffled the sounds of “Turkish March,” which I was
beginning to despise.
I pulled the chain for the overhead light. Spangled costumes and
old props from different acts Oswald had trained over the years
cluttered the walls and the floor. Hoops and ribbons hung from pegs.
A pile of juggling pins sat stacked on the floor next to a dusty
unicycle.
And there was something else in the room: A small, battered
wooden chair. Handcuffs dangled from both sides of its top rung. Two
more cuffs hung unlocked from the two front chair legs. The sight of
it made the hair stand up on my arms. It could have been a prop for
an illusionist’s act, but it looked entirely too small for that.
As if it had been made to restrain children.
I imagined the girls being shackled to that chair day after day,
week after week, until they could meet Oswald’s standards. My
fingernails bit into my palms at the thought of it.
 What to do? I paced the length of the storage room, stepping
around the scattered props. Father would surely learn of Oswald’s
Shadow Dancers, and if I didn’t return home carrying a signed
contract with them, he’d be furious with me for letting such a unique
act get away.
Especially because he had wanted to be the one to come to
Brixton Hill to see them.
I had misrepresented his condition to Oswald. It was true that
my father’s health had been quite precarious. The shock of Samuel’s
sudden death set him back so much that Mother and I feared we
would lose him too. He was weak, confused, and so fatigued that
some days he simply could not rise from his bed.
However, his energy had returned in recent weeks, and he’d
wanted to travel to Brixton Hill to see these amazing performers
Oswald talked about. And despite what I’d said at the station, he
probably would have been strong enough to make the trip.
But I wanted to convince him I should play a bigger part in the
business.
Ever since I was a child, I’d dreamed of being part of our circus.
At first I wanted to be a tightrope walker. I envisioned traversing
arenas high in the air with no net to catch me as admiring crowds
roared my name. But even climbing a ladder made me dizzy and
lightheaded. As I was getting over my fear of heights, a lengthy bout
with influenza that turned into pneumonia left me bedridden and
weak for months, incapable of learning any new physical activities,
much less performing.
I then wished for a more prominent role in the administrative
side of our business, but Father had never believed I might possess
the acumen for anything other than routine tasks such as typing
documents or ferrying messages to our performers. Instead, he made
my brother a much more active participant in the business, sending
him on scouting trips and including him in major decisions about the
company.
I was tired of doing paperwork. I wished to show Father I was as
capable as Samuel at finding and acquiring talent for our circus.
 When Oswald contacted us about his exciting new act, I
persuaded Father to stay home and rest rather than subject himself
to the strain of a trip. If I could execute this deal and make a strong
impression on his long-time associate, perhaps my father would
accept me as a worthy successor to my late brother.
And ah, these dancers! I imagined my father’s face as he
watched their shadows rise from their bodies and dance for the first
time. If I could bring home such a unique act, he would never again
question my business ability.
But I could not stomach contributing to the abuse of these
children, compelling them to train until their shadows had more
substance and vitality than their bodies did. It broke my heart to
think of their empty, joyless faces, their monotone voices.
Then again, if they were in my care in Baltimore, I could make
sure they were treated with the kindness and respect our other
performers received. No more near-starvation. No more being
shouted at and struck. Perhaps they would even be happy there.
And the money they were sure to bring in would save our family
show.
As I began another circuit of the room, I made my decision.
When the strains of Mozart’s music drew to a close, I emerged
from the storage room.
“Well, Miss Montgomery?” The air around Oswald felt cold and
forbidding as he turned from the dancers and glared at me.
“You are right, Lewis. I’m afraid I’ve been rather silly. As you
know, I just don’t have as much experience as my father and brother
with the development of new talent. I would like to welcome the
young ladies to Montgomery’s Marvels—contingent, of course, upon
their performance tonight.”
I smiled before continuing. “I do believe you that there will be no
further problems with any of the dancers. But naturally, I would like
to see how they fare in front of an actual audience. We can negotiate
a price and sign whatever needs to be signed tomorrow.”
That sharklike grin spread across his face. He strode over to me
and gripped my shoulders so tightly it hurt. “So glad to hear it!”
 The practice involved a few more dances, and I did my best not
to look revolted as Oswald slapped Rose on the arm for looking
sluggish, or shouted at Camilla for moving out of sync with everyone
else.
Practice finally ended, and I left the building with Oswald. But as
we walked back to the main house, I realized I had forgotten my
handbag.
“I’ll be but a moment,” I told him as I hurried back to the
gymnasium.
I pushed the front door halfway open and froze. The sight that
greeted me inside rooted me to the spot.
The three shadow dancers remained on their cushions.
Their shadows, as before, did not. But nor did they dance.
They clustered together in a group on the white screen, their
black heads close together. The shadows spoke words I could not
hear. They gestured and pointed. They nodded. They shook their
heads. This shadow discussion was far more animated than the girls
themselves had ever been in my presence.
My scalp tingled and a cold sensation spread down the back of
my neck as I witnessed this impossible conversation. A thought
entered my head as clearly as if someone were talking to me: They
must not know you have seen them do this.
I stood absolutely still and barely dared to breathe until Mrs.
Morrigan came out from the storage room, lugging an armload of
dresses. The shadow conversation came to an abrupt end as the
shadows fled back to their owners’ bodies. I pushed the front door
open with a bang as if I had just come in, and everyone turned to
look at me.
“Pardon. Forgot my handbag.” I retrieved my brown leather
satchel from the corner where it sat, giving Mrs. Morrigan a sheepish
grin.
The dancers continued staring at me with their expressionless
faces as I nodded farewell and hurried back outside.

***
 After the morning rehearsal, Oswald hosted us all for lunch in his
dining room. Hettie brought in roast beef sandwiches, sliced apples,
and coffee for the adults. As Oswald had mentioned the day before,
the girls each received a slice of brown bread and chipped blue bowls
full of a pale amber broth that gave off an unpleasant sour odor.
Oswald stopped the cook before she put anything in front of
Camilla.
“None for her, Hettie. She’s not feeling well.”
Hettie made a sympathetic sound and placed a veiny hand on
the girl’s forehead. “What, nothing at all for the poor thing?”
“Nothing.”
“I could get her some crackers or something. Some tea,
perhaps? Surely, she should—”
“Hettie.”
Oswald glared until the cook moved on from Camilla.
Camilla studied the lace tablecloth, remaining silent. Her face
looked quite pale under the faint pink stains of her tears from earlier
in the day. The other two girls took small sips and bites of their
meager meals, as if they were trying to make their food last as long
as possible. They did not speak to each other or to anyone else at
the table.
Although the sight of their shadow conversation in the
gymnasium had alarmed me, right now they just seemed tired,
harmless, and hungry. I felt a pang of guilt eating my own lunch in
front of them. While Oswald reminisced with Mrs. Morrigan about
Ulysses Burton, a torch-juggling unicycle rider they had both trained,
I picked up the uneaten half of my sandwich, wrapped it in the linen
napkin sitting in my lap, and slipped it into my handbag.
“Wait until you see where we’re going tonight!” Oswald lit a
cigarette and gestured with it as he spoke. “Speaking of Buckingham
Palace! You girls have never seen a place like it. You won’t believe
your eyes. You’ll just have to be careful you don’t get lost in there—
we’ll never find you.” He chuckled at his own joke. Mrs. Morrigan
offered a rare smile, but the girls finished their food without
acknowledging his comment.
 After lunch, the dancers were excused to head back to their
lodgings and get some rest before that night’s big performance. I
finished my coffee, rose from the table, and told Oswald I was going
to take another walk into town.
Instead, I slipped out behind the Shadow Dancers, keeping my
distance but following them along the dirt path to their shabby, faded
barn at the edge of the property. I intended to speak to them about
the possibility of joining Montgomery’s Marvels, and I hoped to be
able to do so without Oswald buzzing around us like a housefly.
They walked in single file without saying a word to each other,
their steps in perfect unison. The pine boughs swayed in the breeze,
and I pitied those girls trying to keep warm in that drafty place.
But then they paused on the path to the barn. They lined up
beside each other, as if they were about to give a performance. My
stomach tensed up and I ducked behind a pine, peering through its
boughs. Their tutus moved in the wind, but they were otherwise still.
And then their shadows emerged, stretching away from their
bodies. The dark silhouettes danced around the grass, the side of the
barn, the pines. They turned cartwheels. They spun in place. This
was no drill-perfect coordinated dance. This looked like innocent,
childlike playfulness. For the first time, the girls seemed to be
enjoying themselves and their unusual ability. I smiled. They were
putting on the most charming performance I had seen from them.
And they had no idea anyone was watching.
When they had finished capering around the grass, Camilla and
Rose’s shadows snapped back to their owners’ bodies.
Abigail’s shadow stretched a hand over the latch on the barn
door and opened it. I pressed my lips together and drew in a sharp
breath as her shadow rejoined her body. The girls disappeared inside
the barn, and Camilla closed the door behind them.
And now I was unsure what to do. I’d wanted to talk to them,
but the revelation that their shocking abilities extended far beyond
what even their trainer was aware of left me reeling. Part of me
wanted to leave Brixton Hill at once, putting this bizarre situation
behind me.
 But then I would be abandoning these girls to their awful lives.
That gnawed at my conscience.
After a moment of thought, I took a deep breath, approached
the barn, and knocked. The faint voices from inside stopped at once.
Rose opened the door, her blonde eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Good afternoon. May I come in?” I gave her a smile I hoped
was reassuring.
“Sure, I guess.” Her voice sounded somewhat more childlike than
it had in the gymnasium.
The interior of the barn still retained a faint smell of horses, and
the cracked concrete floor looked dingy in the overhead light. Old,
faded blankets had been tacked up to cover the walls, and they
bulged and rippled as breezes blew through the slats. Three cots
covered with more worn blankets sat next to large, battered gray
steamer trunks. A fourth cot was topped with nothing but a dirty, thin
mattress. A tub and a wash basin stood at the far end of the open
space. No toys, pictures, or any other signs of home adorned the
place.
Camilla lay on her cot, wrapped in a faded pink quilt. She looked
over her shoulder at me with hollow, listless eyes. The other dancers
sat upright on their cots, giving me their familiar blank stares.
“I do hope I’m not intruding.”
They said nothing. Their eyes remained fixed on me. I ran my
tongue over my lips and smiled.
“As I asked before, would you girls like to come to Baltimore with
me? My father and I would love to feature you in our circus.”
Their expressions did not change. After a few seconds of silence,
Rose spoke up. “What’s Baltimore like?”
“It’s a big city. Much, much bigger than Brixton Hill. And my
family’s circus is a very nice place. We don’t hit our performers.” I
addressed that part to Camilla, whose eyes widened.
“And you won’t be by yourselves. You’ll all get to make lots of
new friends.” Indeed, the older women with the show tended to be
quite protective of the younger female performers.
Camilla’s eyes showed a bit more life as she gazed over her
shoulder at me. “Can I meet the torch-juggling man on the unicycle?”
 I chuckled. “Ulysses retired several years ago. But you’ll get to
meet lots of people just like him. And they’ll love meeting you, too.
We have some wonderful performers, but nobody there can do what
you girls do.”
Rose and Camilla exchanged wide-eyed looks as Abigail glanced
at them, biting her lip.
“And I’ve got a niece around your age. Poor Vanessa’s been
rather sad since her father passed away suddenly. Perhaps you could
all be friends.”
The wariness began to leave their faces as I continued.
“Have any of you girls ever seen an elephant?”
They shook their heads at me, and the corners of Rose’s mouth
began to lift.
“Ah! Then I’ll have to introduce you to Miss Coco when you
arrive. She’s very fond of children. And you’ll get to live in a much
nicer place than this.” I gestured around the dingy old barn. “We’ll
find you some proper lodgings when you arrive in Baltimore. And
we’ll make sure you get decent meals.”
Now I had their rapt attention.
“We’ll get to eat?” Rose asked.
“Of course. Performers are far more effective when they’re
adequately fed.”
“That’s not what Mr. Oswald says.” Abigail frowned.
I waved a hand. “Well, I happen to disagree with him. And once
I give him his fee and you girls are in Baltimore, he won’t have any
say in the matter, anyhow.”
“He won’t be there?” Rose asked.
“He will not. He and Mrs. Morrigan will remain here in Brixton
Hill.”
Camilla swung her body toward me and sat upright on her cot.
“When can we go?”
“Well, I leave for Baltimore tomorrow. If our negotiations are
done by then, I see no reason you can’t come with me. The sooner
we can get you all set up in your new city, the better. Would you like
to ride on a train? You’ll be riding them quite a bit when the show
travels to different cities.”
 Abigail nodded. Camilla smiled.
And Rose gave me a wide, genuine grin, the first I’d seen from
any of these girls. “I want to ride the train!”
“Very glad to hear it. I think we’ll all have such fun together. But
there’s just one more thing. Abigail?” Her striking turquoise eyes
widened when I said her name. “May I please speak to you outside
for a moment?”
She rose from her cot and followed me out of the barn without a
word. After closing the door, I drew closer to her and lowered my
voice.
“Were you trying to tell me something back there?” I pointed at
the gymnasium, thinking of how her shadow shook its head at
Oswald’s story about poor Valerie.
“I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.” Her voice still held a flat
tone but she glanced sideways toward Oswald’s house, as if she
feared he might burst out the front door and come charging down
the hill toward us at any moment.
“I think you do. What really happened to Valerie?”
She ran her tongue over her chapped lips before speaking. “She
died.”
“I gathered that much, dear. But how? I promise you anything
you tell me will stay between the two of us.”
Abigail swallowed and studied the ground for a moment before
continuing. “Well, I don’t know how. She just dropped one day. We’d
been practicing all morning and part of the afternoon. We hadn’t
eaten anything. Valerie said she felt funny, but the mister didn’t care.
The show must go on, he said. Just like he said today.”
“I see. So then what happened?”
“We were dancing and dancing and then…well, she got up off
her cushion, said she didn’t feel good, and fell on the floor. She shook
all over for a minute and then just stopped moving. And that was it.
The mister called the doctor, but Val was already gone by the time he
got here.”
Abigail maintained her emotionless manner of speaking
throughout this dreadful story, but a warm wave of pity surged in my
chest. It had been bad enough to think of a girl falling in the creek
and drowning, but the truth was just as awful. Perhaps even more so,
as these poor girls had had to watch one of their own die right in
front of them.
“I’m so sorry. How sad for her. And that must have been a
terrible thing for the rest of you to have to see.”
Abigail continued to study her feet.
“But why do you suppose Mr. Oswald told me she drowned in the
creek?”
She shrugged. “He said something about folks causing him
trouble if they knew the truth.”
“Again, I’m very sorry. You must miss her.”
“No. She’s still with us, ma’am.”
I thought of the recent loss of my brother. Sometimes I still
heard his familiar footsteps in the hallway at home, or felt certain I’d
just heard his voice in the next room, or saw a man who was his very
image walking by.
“I understand, dear. Those we care about are never truly gone,
are they?”
Abigail wrapped her thin arms around herself and shivered in the
breeze, and I felt it would be unkind to keep her out here any longer.
I remembered the other reason I’d come out here, and I opened my
handbag and pulled out the wrapped half-sandwich.
“Can you please give this to Camilla?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
“It’s part of my sandwich from lunch. If she starts feeling better
this afternoon, she should eat something before we go. And if she
doesn’t want it, perhaps the rest of you might want to share it. I
know it isn’t much, but it could give you a little more energy for
tonight.”
“Can’t take that, ma’am.” She backed away from me as if I’d
pulled a hissing cobra from my bag and thrust it toward her. “The
mister doesn’t like it when we sneak food.”
“But you didn’t sneak this. I gave it to you. You can blame it on
me if he catches you. I’ll just tell him I didn’t know any better.”
She shook her head, never taking her eyes off the sandwich.
“But we do know better. And we don’t need it, anyhow.”
 “Abigail…”
She opened the door. “I need to go inside and rest now. You can
tell him I didn’t take that.”
“No, I didn’t do this to—” The faded door banged shut in my face
before I could tell her the sandwich wasn’t some kind of test Oswald
and I devised to trick her.
But why would she believe me? She was surrounded by adults
she had no particular reason to like or trust. Why would she think I
was any different from the others? Feeling foolish, I put the linen
bundle back in my handbag.
I had intended to return to my room in Oswald’s house for a
brief nap before the party that evening, but my mind churned so
much I knew I would be unable to sleep. Instead I went for a walk,
following the dirt path that wound around the many pine trees on
Oswald’s sprawling grounds. The plight of the Shadow Dancers had
reawakened an old longing I thought I’d long since stifled.
As a newlywed, I had desperately wanted to be a mother. I’d
hoped for both a girl and a boy. I examined children’s clothing
whenever I was in a department store, imagining the happy day
when I could dress my own beautiful children in those tiny, precious
frocks and suits.
But two years after I was married, an anonymous letter
appeared in our mailbox and I learned my husband was expecting a
child with the organist of our local church. His infidelity still felt like a
hot brick of shame in my chest. When my marriage came to its swift
and humiliating end, I folded up all those dreams of children and
packed them away.
As time passed and I remained unmarried, I buried that longing
deeper and deeper inside myself, far enough within me that the
thought of motherhood no longer caused pain. There was no point
obsessing over something that was not meant to be. I busied myself
with whatever duties Father gave me for Montgomery’s Marvels.
While I always enjoyed the happy little faces of the children who
came to our shows over the years, I entertained no more thoughts of
having any children of my own.
 Until now. These girls were not my daughters and weren’t even
children. And they possessed an ability that bordered on terrifying.
But they were in an awful situation, and I wanted to bundle them up,
carry them to a safe place, and care for them. And they wanted my
help. They needed me.
Tomorrow, I would begin working to give them a new and better
life.
 Part Three
A few hours later, I met up with everyone outside Oswald’s house
to travel to the Cutler Mansion for the party. I would ride with
Oswald, and Mrs. Morrigan would follow with the Shadow Dancers.
The twilight sky was shot through with clouds in shades of pink and
deep blue as we walked down the gravel drive to his sedan.
“Would it be easier for Mrs. Morrigan if some of the girls rode
with us?” I asked Oswald. I didn’t relish the idea of being his captive
audience for the trip.
“The girls are used to Mildred. She can keep them under control
should they start getting rambunctious.”
I thought of how quiet and still the girls had almost always been
in my presence. “Do they ever get rambunctious?”
He laughed. “Not at all! But with performance-night nerves, who
knows what could happen? Camilla might make another fuss. In any
event, Mildred can handle whatever problems might arise.”
The three dancers waited by Mrs. Morrigan’s brown Chevrolet. It
was hard to imagine what sort of a fuss any of these tiny, exhausted-
looking girls could cause. They all wore tutus of bright pink fabric and
tulle with purple sequins that sparkled in the twilight, and their faces
were now embellished with heavy pancake makeup, pink lips, and
exaggerated eyelashes. But all the colors and cosmetics could not
disguise the listlessness in their pale, drawn faces. Camilla’s makeup
looked especially stark against her wan face. And none of them wore
a coat despite the early-spring chill in the air. My heart sank at the
sight of them.
“You girls look lovely tonight,” I tried, hoping to make at least
one of them smile. Abigail eyed me with a wary expression. Nobody
said anything. Whatever warmth I’d managed to get from them
during my afternoon visit was gone.
We piled into our respective cars and set out for the Cutler
home, which was approximately an hour away on the outskirts of
Williamsburg. Oswald was drenched in a heavy citrus scent that
made my eyes water and sting. He glanced at me a couple of times
and cleared his throat.
“So, Kate. Have you thought any more about what sort of a deal
you might like to strike for my dancers?” This, of course, was why he
had wanted me alone in the car with him.
“Of course I’ve been thinking about it. I imagine they’ll be an
even bigger draw than Cyril Kurtz, that magnificent illusionist you
sent our way. He was our most successful act to date.” A brief
memory flashed in my mind: Cyril leaning toward me in a restaurant
after a show, lighting my cigarette and whispering “I can make
anything disappear—including clothes” with a silky British accent and
a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes. That memory brought a warm flush
to my cheeks. But Cyril had long since left Montgomery’s Marvels. I’d
heard nothing from him in years.
“What did Father offer you for Cyril’s services? We’ll want to give
you much more for the Shadow Dancers, of course.”
Oswald cleared his throat again.
“The thing is…because these girls are so truly unique, I was
hoping for a sort of more regular payment.”
“Regular?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Hear me out, please. I will be giving up quite a lot by turning
them over to you instead of simply using them in a show of my own,
or offering them to another company. And times are terribly hard for
all of us right now, as you know. A regular payment would ensure
that I do not train a whole new troupe of dancers and offer them to
another circus. A bigger one.”
My ears grew hot. Would he have dared to spring a demand like
this on my father? We had left the comfortable confines of Brixton Hill
by now, and nothing but dead, barren oak trees flanked the road as
the sun continued to set. No houses or farms broke up the long
stretch of empty scenery. The isolation made this discussion feel even
less comfortable.
“That’s never been part of your deals with us before, has it?”
“It has not. But I’ve never offered you an act like this one
before. And as I said, times are very tough, Kate.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 —Maide, nou in de stoomdroaimole.. dâ hier is d’r
debies! dubbel debies! je braikt d’r hier je allemenak!..
inne de stoommole.. doar kâ je ’n stuk van de toart
happe.. daa’s puur veul fainer.. de rais!

—Ikke rais d’r alletait eereste klas, moar ’t mot d’r drie
moal opstoan vat je! lolde Piet.

—Neenet pinkebul! drong Dirk op, en Willem méé,

eerest hier wa fraite.… poone! aiêres!.… hee maid!
stal uit! wa hai je d’r veur lekkers!

Dientje schrok. Ze hoorde de dronken stemmen van

oom Dirk en Piet, en de andere Hassels. Maar Dirk
herkende ’t dochtertje van Kees niet, zag alleen
vreetwaar, vettig en glimmig. Bij stapels rukten Dirk en
Willem de poonen en scharren uit ’t kinderknuistje, en
de reuzige klauw van Rink stopte ’t kind ’n rijksdaalder
in de hand. Gerekend werd er niet.

—Dá’ mot moar net an weuse.. bi jai besuikerd,

bromde Rink.—En ’t wàs goed, dat voelde Dientje ook
wel.

Vóór ’t stalletje brokkelden de kerels en meiden de

poonen open, en hapten in ’t blanke vet en vleesch.
[314]

Zoetig broeide de bakolie rond in walmstanken.

—Hee Dirk! waa’s dat! frait jai d’r puur op ’n droogie!

jai kakkerlak! woar is ’t kind? wie wiegt d’r ’t klaintje?
jai Hoasewind?
 Piet uit ’n hoek, kwam aanzwaaien met de
jeneverkruik, dwars door ’n warreltroep die langs hen
hoste.—En in koeterwaalsche uitstottering van
vleinaampjes tegen den drank, sputterde ie naar de
meiden:

—Enne liefe makraile.… lekkere pokhoagels..

dottesnolle.. waa’t sel ’t weuse op haide veur de
doàmes.

—Nou! wai suipe d’r vast nie op de keie, bitste Guurt.

—Daa’s jou maines, moar maines nie, want ikke leg

d’r ’n urretje, schaterde Marie Pijler, de
kasteleinsdochter, die net bij ’t troepje aangeland was.

—Daa’s toal mestvarke! jai bint d’r gain snaiboon, sien

maide! sloan jullie d’r ’n gat in de kruik, hitste Rink.

—Jai bint d’r vast gain kalf mi ’t natte neus, lodderde

Piet na.

—Joà, proeste de furiënde blonde, op dâ terrain bi’k

deurpokt en deurmoaselt.… wâ jou Hoasefind? Moar
wâ selle wai doen mi sonders woafels en oliebolle..
main aiêrs motte sakke.. ikke hep d’r al drie en dertig
bikkelharde in main pins.

—Alloo maa’ne! hoale.. hoale! schaterde Trijn.

—Doar mo’k niks van heefte, bazuinde Rink, jelie mot

d’r nog soo veul, langsaampies maid.. dan braikt ’t
laintje nie!
 —Kaik daa’s sneu! set jai nou us de kat bai ’t spek!
hee wâ?

—Wa sneu! bulderde Rink weer, jou kakkerlak! sing

mee.. sing mee:

Heb jai sommes trek in ’n oliebol

Je kop roakt d’r vast nie van op hol!
Je loâ je waige of suipt ’n bier
Je host, je lach..igt, je haift pelsier..

En heel de stoet bralde mee voor ’n tentje, in walmig

bleek oranjeschijnsel: [315]

—Je host, je lach-igt, je haif pelsier

Je loâ je waige, je suipt je bier!

Voor den stoomdraaimolen gierde juichende

menschendrom.

Zondagavondsche kermisjoel was in verpletterend

uitbarstenden zwier aangestormd. Van alle
kermishoeken uit, brandden lampions, rood-oranje,
geel-groene gloor, tusschen flambouwengoud en
brandstapelig vonkgevlam van poffertjeskraam-ovens,
waarop ’t vuur knapperde en tonglikte, rood
ommistend de gloeikleurige tenten.

’t Zigzagde in de brandroode lucht van lampions-

kronkels en vlammige boogpoorten boven de oranjige
walmkoppen.

De stoomdraaimolen raasde in wenteling en

verroffelde vernielende geruchten rond, onder den hel-
paarsen brand van elektriek. Van binnen uit, achter
 barokstijl van zuilen en tempelbogen, kringden òm in
rutschbaangolving, venetiaansche gondels, vurig
beboegd, met gondeliers in tomaatroode gewaden,
sloepen en baldakijnen, hermelijn-blank oversneeuwd
in ’t helle licht, tusschen flakkerenden duizel van
spiegels en ruiten. Moorsche kioskjes, fel in vlam van
heete kleuren, zwalkten op baren van schitterige
glansen, avondzonnende sfeer van elektriek.

En telkens, andere sloepen en gondels draaiden vóór,

in roffelend gerucht; gondels, die de grof-koppige
gondeliers als Graal-karikaturen, op zwaanhalzige
bootjes, met hun zilverende schubbenkleedij, in hellen
gloed gevangen hielden. Als ’n zondvloedstorm
zwalpte de infernale roffel van den stoommolen
tusschen de saamgestampte licht-overschroeide
kijkmassa. Gekraak en gekreun kermde er neer uit de
sloepjes, brallend geschater uit heesche strotten. En
als Satanssignaal verschalde de stoomfluit van den
molen, angstgegil van ’n misthoorn, door den
brandenden woel heen, spiraal van demonisch
gerucht over de daverende en jammerende drommen
snerpend, verstervend in klagelijk geloei langs de
duisterende polderzee.—

Broeisfeer van kermis smeulde rook-rooder en

goudmistiger [316]òp in den zomer-zwoelen avond. Om
en achter de tenten en spellen in ’t duister, doken
kerels áán met meiden, in rauwe genotskreun, zat en
lijflog van uitgedierlijkten zwijmel. Politie deed
schuchteren rondgang daartusschen, waagde zich
nauw onder de mesklare vechters. Uit de bont-
gloeiende poffertjeskramen, langs ’t duisterend
 plankwerk, plofte plots ’n rij korte, lallende boertjes,
vetbuikige-ingedrongen gestaltetjes, begoudschemerd
van ovengloed. Hun koppen grijnsden dronken, bietig-
purper; hun bezopen oogen verfonkelden lol, en hun
glanzende pofpetten reepten ’n zwarte lijn boven hun
tronies. In hun midden herkuulde ’n paal-lange reus,
slungel met smallen zeehondenkop, wreed loerend uit
loensche oogen. Donker bonkten z’n schonken boven
de lage rij pofpetten uit.—Boerbuikjes spanden,
armpjes wrongen, beentjes, breed gezakt in
klepbroekenplooien, zwommen en trampelden rond in
den oranje lichtmist, en vóórt sliertte de met armen-
ingehaakte slingerrij, van den vuurschijn uit, ’t duister
in.—

Pal in de flakkerende flambouwing van de

luchtschommels doemden ze weer òp, begloeiend de
tronies, zwammig geel neerbrandend op monden,
kaaklijnen, woelend woest in oogholten. Telkens gleed
wisselenden lichtglans over den boertjesstoet als vóór
hen, een dolle dans van dwars voorbij rennende
kerels en wijven, okerenden rosglans van ovens en
lampen opslurpte.

Vlak voor de kleine boertjes uit, met den reuzigen

slungel in ’t midden die meedonkerde als gemoerde
lantaarnpaal waarop pofpet piekte, kankaneerden vier
woest-dronken Kerkervaartsche meiden, in flappering
van rokken en kanaljeuse lijfontblooting, zwierig
zwirrelend omschuimd van witte onderplunje, kolkend
tusschen hun dans-duivelige kuiten. Ze draaiden en
raasden in hun eigen kolkender rokkenschuim als
dolle kollen.—Met opene zangmonden, in keelbrand
roodgeslagen door ’t licht, koppen hemelwaarts, gilden
ze rond, tamboerijnend met de woeste knuisten op
kindertrommeltjes, kannibalige geruchten verroffelend.
Ze spuwden in den kermiswoel, horlepijpten [317]de
beenen in wilde harlekinade, en d’r kleurige
zondagsche plunje, oranjerood met d’r vieren,
vervlamde in ’t fakkelgoud, overal waar hun hos langs
schoot.

Donk’re kerelsstoet zeilde schuin àf op kleine

boertjesrij, haakte zich vast aan armstompjes en snel
in kringloop cirkelden ze zich wijd om de dronken
gillende meiden, die schaterend-woest zich plots
ingesloten voelden.—

Boerenkoppen glunderden zinlijk en wreed van passie

in gloedwalmend roodgeel schijnsel van ovens en
lampetten. Boerenbeentjes klein en zwaar van
krachtspanning, trampelden weer stuipend. De groote
slungel, schonkig en donker boven de pofpetten
uitreuzend, gierde en pagaaide z’n beenen in dronken
spartel voor zich uit. Z’n zeehondenkop met puntige
kinnespits, was beschuimd van uitgebrald spog, en z’n
karikatuurhanden, knepen krampig van pret in de
schouders van twee boertjes waar ie tusschen
gekneld waggelde.—

Politie had ’t duivelende meidenstel in hun jool van

rokken-lawaai, in hun stem-bezetenheid en
hysterischen waanzinroes zien steigeren, en met
schrik de boertjes zich zien storten op de dronken
furies, die heftig terugbonkten. Een van de vier
dronken vrijsters, lang en schraal, stond waggelend
 neusklankerig te stoethaspelen, drukte d’r hoofd in
den nek na wat wezenloozen woordenstamel, zoog de
flesch aan den mond en klokkerde ’r drankje in, knie-
ingezakt van passie. Aan haar arm ingehaakt, al de
rokken opgesjord, gilde ’n klein blondje, krijscherig als
’n zuigeling:

—Aooaau-uw! waa’t ’n ska-ande!

De twee andere meiden slingerden mee met de

dansschokken van de hysterische blonde, die lach-
hinnekend, in polderkerelkracht d’r dronken
vriendinnen, dàn naar zich toesleurde, dàn weer van
zich afstootte.

En rond hen, de tronies-wreede boertjeskring,

buikzwaar en kortbeenig, met den paljaslach van den
schonkigen donk’ren herkuul er boven uitrochelend.—
[318]

Boerenstoet, nu in kring met vreemde kerels rond

geschakeld, aarzelde met nieuwen aanval op de
meiden. Toen plots drongen de vreemde knapen
vooruit en smakten zich woest op de vier bezetenen,
hel in hun oranje-roode blouses en rokken. Hun
zangekerm brak even àf, en in spuwende verachting
spogen ze de kerels ’n stroom kleurige confettis in de
tronies, hun lijven in wilden woel, ruisch en druisch,
rondspiralend in eindlooze serpentiens.—

De meiden, hoonend in hun woeste kracht,

trampelden rond dat de serpentiens knapten op hun
lijven. Twee kerels mikten hun de slangelinten in de
zanglallende monden, kronkelden ze tusschen hun
 ontbloote beenen, en de boertjes in wreeden
zinneschater, kringden nauwer áán. De meiden, doller
in al engeren krans zich voelend, haakten zich armlos,
trampelden de boertjes op de tonnige korpulente
buikjes, mokerden vuisthevig in de gloed-geschroeide
kerelstronies. En haveloozer overkolkt van
rokkenschuim, kankaneerden ze zich los tegen den
boertjes-muur, die de bezetenen weer met woesten
smak den kring inwaggelden.

Besefloos en òp hijgden twee meiden uit, met

bloederig gevlek van karmijn-valen schijn op de
kaken.

Politiemannetjes onrustiger, rukten áán, sloegen zich

nu gemaakt-driftig door den boerenkring heen, botsten
de dronken kerels wèg, verkneuzend hun papieren
ruikerpracht op borst, hoofd, rug en dijen.

Maar de kerels waggelden in nijdigen haast bijéén met

hun afgezakte kleeren, losgerukte broeken en jassen,
in dronken gier harlekineerend met kleurigen flapper
van linten en mutsen. Al dichter verschuifelden ze
naar bakovenbrand van grootste wafelenkraam, zwaar
gebarend in protest, om ’t weggeduw der politie;—
daar groeiend tegen den rossigen vulkanischen
lichtschroei als waggelende titanen. Vermanend-
schuchter drongen de wetsmannen áán, de dol-
gierende meiden praaiend naar kalmte.

Maar de furiën overmoediger raasden òp, stotterden

van dronken drift, spogen, vloekten en scholden op de
agenten, mokerden [319]plots tegelijk als op bevel, met
woeste beukvuisten op de koperende gloedhelmen in.
De lange schrale meid met ’t „hápje” in ’r hand, kwijlde
en zoop slurperig-lang tot den laatsten drup, zwierde
toen plots de flesch op de keien dat ’r
schervengedruisch kletterde rond de helmmannen.
Dan greep ze, met twee handen bijéen haar
roodhellen rok, knoopte de punten hoog op de heupen
vast, en stormde, de vuisten tot mokers gekneld, in
dronken draf op een klein agentje àf.

Fakkelgloed goot rood-gele verglijende schijnsels op

de gouden helmen, die standjesachtig-puntig bòven
de pofpetten van weer aangedrongen boertjes,
verdeukte hoeden en losharige meidkoppen
weerlichtten in schramperig geglans.

De meiden bijeenstrompelend in de haveloozen gier

van hun ontbloote lijven en den driftbeef van hun
passiemonden, woelden nog in kraak en slinger van
afgeknapten serpentiens, kleurlinten, konfetti’s en
losgebladerde ruikers. Als ’n kleurig netwerk zat hun
verflodderde haartooi met konfetti’s en lintslippen
volgekroest, als had avondhemel vurigen hagelslag
over hun uitgestort. Twee meiden hadden hun
trommels met de vuist in ’t perkament doorstooten, en
bonkten er mee rond. ’t Blondje en de schrale, rukten
zich de konfetti’s en lintslippen uit de haren,
verkauwden de serpentiens en ruikers, en in
steigerende razernij spogen ze kleurige fluimen de
agent-bakkessen in.—Huilerige woedeklanken
schorden ze uit, in wezenloozen zwijmel van gebaren.
Vloeken, spuwden ze rond in liederlijke rauwheid, en
straatdeunig schreiden hun dronken stemmen tegen
elkaar in.
 —Lies, krijschte de magere, jai stoan d’r op de
valraip.. kom kerlinike.. kom- ker.… linike.… kom!.…
ikke seg … da d’r ’n hap is!—en ’n nieuwe flesch
zwierde ze in hoonenden jool boven hun kleurig-
behagelde koppen, heete beestschaters uitproestend
voor verblufte agenten en kijkers. De boertjes
sprongen weer brutaler bij, aangelokt door de stoute
furiën, trappelden en ranselden klappen en boffen
rond, in snauwende vloeken.

—Toe, hitste Lies, in hysterischen krijsch, met ’n stem

van ’n [320]straatorgelbas, zelf doller met ’r vuistmokers
rondzwaaiend dat ’r niemand te na kwam,—toe! gaif
jai d’r die klebak ’n handskoen da s’n bofedeurtje deur
de muur hainskiet!

—Gain groasje! gain groasje, dood an die swaine, trek

jullie.. d’r ’n poar kiese! roggelde de schrale weer,
kwijlspuwend en trappend de rokken tot d’r borsten
opgesjord.—

—Gain proatjes op d’r laif! sloan hullie.… achter ’t

tessie, hinnikte ’t sterke blondje, die worstelde in
zenuwroetige en stuipende kracht met ’n agentje, van
wien ze de sabel had losgerukt.—

Toen hadden de helmmannen er genoeg van. Ze

vreesden de razernij der kerels rond om niet meer. ’n
Signaal snerpte door den rochelenden bral van
stemmen en in draf stormden helpers áán.

Met vijf zwaaien van de blink-helle sabels schoot

boertjeskrans uitéén, waggelde ontdane kerelsstoet
wèg, in krolschen krijsch, stonden de meiden alleen
 tusschen den helmendrom, die hoogkoperde en
lichtflitste in rood-gelen walmgloed.

Half dood van zenuwuitputtenden worstel zonken de

dronken furies op elkaar wèg, half ontbloot, de
havelooze plunje morsig vertrapt, de gekneusde
beenen dooréén gewarreld. Ze hijgden, en de lange
schrale onderaan, die in den struikel, d’r drie
vriendinnen boven zich kreeg gesmakt, lag plat op ’r
buik, grabbelde nog, zenuwspartelend naar haar
flesch die onder de kreunende borst van ’t blondje
uithalsde.

Raak stootten de agenten ze als gestruikelde paarden

op de beenen, en hoshos in boei, sleepten ze de
geschonden furies naar ’t stadhuis. De schrale Lies
liet zich sleuren langs de keien, half op ’r buik, waar
de geboeide handen onder krampten als korte vinnen.
In modder sleepte ze voort, tot eindelijk twee
helmmannen ’r bij de beenen en losharige kop
oplichtten, haar brankarig voortsjokkerden onder
woest gegier, schel gefluit en geschater van
meeschuifelenden menschendrom.—

’t Blondje, trapte en spoog dat de helmmannen ’r

mepten in de verwoede tronie, stompten op de
hijgende borsten, sterker haar knuisten bijeenknellend
in de boeien. Maar ze [321]trapte zich naakt dat de
helmmannen ’r telkens den vuurrooien rok, en ’t
schuimende ondergoed moesten neerslaan. Achter
den dronken stoet áán, in trein-woesten daver,
trampelden kijkers in joelkring, en voorbij ging ’t in den
 oranjigen walmgloed van fakkels, gaspitten en
lampetten.

Duister gegier, getrampel en fluiterig-oproerig geraas

brasten in donk’re hoeken, en voort rukten de
agenten, recht uit naar ’t Stadhuis.

—D’r goan d’r vier Kerkfoarters de bak in, krijschten

jochies, kerels en meiden dooreen, met angstklank
van politieverzet in de ontstelde toch oproerige
stemmen, vechtlustig doortrild van haat tegen ’t
helmstoetje.

Dwars door de kermishitte, in ’t demonengoud en

pralig gefonkel, rukten ze voort de ordemannen, en
plots zwenkten ze steegje door, op ’t stadhuis áán.
Toen, met ’n sleur rukten ze de meiden stoep-end òp,
en stootten ze waggelend de gang in. Dof gekrijsch uit
de dronken meidenkelen heeschte nà, verward,
rochelend als uit moordkelen, klam en verwurgd, en
met slag van baas-zijn, smakten de agenten de
deuren voor de neuzen van kijkers en meeloopers
dicht, dat ’n rouw gejoel uit den menschendrom
opraasde, in ’n woeste alliteratie van wraak, al was ’t
maar in hoongeluid alleen.

Stom en strompelend waren de geboeide furiën de

bak ingeduwd.

Even verbluft maar, braste en bruiste de stoet weer

voort, satanisch d’r woelzangen verkrijschend in
oproerigen vechtlustigen jubel, rennend naar
Baanwijk, of daar wat gebeuren ging.
 [Inhoud]

VI.

In zwierige herrie hosten de Hassels en Grintjes,

Hazewind en Rink vóórop, door ’t korte Klooster-
steegje van Haven naar Baanwijk.

Telkens kleurvlammend in warmer tintenbrand, fel, in

de duisterende avondvergouding, schoten lijven van
prachtige [322]meiden door ’t licht, parkietig,
groenroode rokken en jakken; paarszilverig bekraalde
japonnen, geel gouden en bronzen manteltjes,
pronkerig dooreenschuifelend in ballettigen warrel.

Wild hosten de goud bekapte boerinnen, hun

hoofdtooi in fonkelende cier uitblinkend onder ’t fijne
mutsengaas, met de glanzende kurketrekkers bij de
slapen, naast hoed-bepluimde, slank-prachtige
meiden in den warmen wasem en damp van ’t
lichtgevloei.

Rauwe krijsch, zwirrelde achter de Hassels en Grint’s

áán in ’t steegje, en schimmige rompen met bangen
schaduwsleep stortten plots in ’n vlaag van
kraamgloeilicht, vlak voor hen uit weer vervlammend.
Oranje helle gloed sloeg daar tegen de tronies áán, de
monding van kloostersteeg uitgolvend. In gril en kras
streepvlamde de gloed op voorhoofden, dwars over
neuzen en monden, vrat hel in op kleeren en
schouders; beschminkte in wond’ren brand
oranjevlammig, wild en huiverend-woest, kaken en
wangbrokken, soms plots in warrel van wind
 verschemerend naar roodgeel, rossig oranje en
bleekgoud.—

Omzoomd in beverig rosgeel schuifelden de Hassels

en Grintjes voort, en ver achter hen aan, in
schemerrood dromden al meer romp-donk’re dringers,
verklonk hijgend rauw gejoel van nieuwe stoeten, zich
stortend en wringend in den steegdrang, ineengeperst
tusschen engen kronkel van huisjes, karren en hekjes,
als ’n benauwende bent z’n duistere opstanding
beworstelend.

Uit donk’re kroegjes in ’t steegje, verraasde getier en

misbaar achter groene gordijntjes, schor-rumoer en
dreunig zanggezeur. Schunnige muzikanten
trombonden daar uit, schel-valsche zangscheuren,
basdiep en dreunend.

Telkens ritsten groene gordijnen weg van de roe en

rossigden de kroegholletjes goudrookig open, met hun
bedompten petroleumwalm, verstikkende
danszaaltjes, kermissnel ingericht voor sprong en
zuip.

Kerels met oranje doeken, boevige kroegtypen en

zweetende meiden zwelgden daar in dollen warrel, en
tusschen de moffenblazers [323]zanikte ’n valsche
harmonika zuchtenden zang, waarom heen, in
kanaljeuzen kankan, handen tot poorten geheven, de
heete meiden, grinnikend en zinnerauw, verwoelden in
kring.—Door ’t steegje heen verklonk in getemperd
gerucht, bachanaal van de geel-dampige dansholen.
 Tegen donkeren inham bij lage kaduke krottenrij,
waarvan de gevellijnen in nachtzwart schimden, en
kronkelpad slingerde naar doodsche huisjes, buiten
den kermiswoel verstillend als leeggemoord,—zat ’n
blinde in schemer van droef-lichtende nachtkaars. Z’n
kale kop, tegen verweerden roestmuur, vermurmelde
ie nederige smeekende bedelwoordjes, één
uitgemagerde beefhand vooruitgekromd met bakje.—
Schimmig stààrde z’n blinde tronie, even beschemerd
in bleek wasschijnsel en reuzig silhouetten rug en
hoofdschaduw op ’t verweerde baksteen van den
roestmuur. Langs ’m wrongen en drongen de
kermisgangers, nijdig uitvallend tegen den
schooierigen blinde, dat hij zich zoo maar, met z’n
ellende en duistere droefnis, dwars door hun pret te
kijk kwam stellen.

Op Baanwijk brandde ’t avond-goud gas door rossigen

nevel van reuzelige stanken. De bont-stralende
kramen stonden er als gigantisch speelgoed in ’n
ravijn van toortsgloed. Ze flonkerden in gondelierige à-
giornopraal en spiraligen kleurenbrand. En alkleurig
licht ademde uit, zengde den paars-duisteren nacht
rondom.

Door boterige oliestanken, zoetig, ranzig en

prikkelend, nevelde de lichtval, en de wisselglanzige
kraamruitjes, in hun doorvlamd rood en kobalt,
verschoten in kleurige spiegeling, weerkaatst geel en
amber-diep schijnsel, glissend en spelend over glas-
glanzingen, in brekenden klater van prismabrand en
avondvonkenden luister. En tegen overal wijkende
achtergronden van rood-rossigen damp, vlamden de
 bakovens van verre, als ’n smidsestad in smokerig
oranje-helle omgloeiing; in uitdonkerende verwaaiing
en oplichting van likkend vuur en zwarten walm; dàn
weer als altaren waarop takkenbosjes knetterden en
uitrookten. Waar, achter begloeiden mist, de koperen
warm-vlammende [324]meelpotten, tempelig in glorie
van amber en goudgeel uitlaaiden, glimmerenden
brand van hel-gepoetst koper.—En achter en tusschen
de vlammende altaren en gouden meelpotten, in
flakkerenden damp, de blank-beservette
wafelentafeltjes, omflonkerd van vuur-glans
uitschietende karafjes en glazen, alles in blank-
zilverende sfeer, gloeiend in rijtjes, tusschen de
rooddonkere overgordijnen, stoeltjes en knussige
salonnetjespracht. Rij aan rij, achter de ovens,
troonden de dikke baksters op de hooge zetels, als
vervette mythe-godinnen, in de blonde wreedheid van
hun geblankette tronies, scheppend uit de meelpotten,
den druipenden lepel uitstortend over de
poffertjesplaten, waarop ’t knetterde, siste en
babbelde.—Er boven uit vergeurde ’n helsche
lekkerheid van boterig zoet, tusschen prikkeligen
bakoliestank. De takkenbossen knetter-vlamden;
flakkerende smookgloed karnavalde allegorische
lichtgroepen in een duizelenden schroei, en
angsthellig ’t oranjig demonengoud van de
ovenvlammen vèrdampte walmen over de vloekzang-
geruchten. Rond den knetter en rook-rooden bak van
poffers en wafels; rond de klepperende geluiden van
tangen, sis-roosters en ijzeren platen, dreunden de
helsche orgelkelen tegen elkaar in, in schellen tingel;
en rauw van verslempende misère schreide de
menschenzang rond, van de lichthoeken
 neerjammerend in den duisteren nacht, overal om ’t
stedeke, ontzet en dreigstil.—

En heller de avondgouden lampenbrand van kramen

en olieboltentjes, met hun kleurige dekzeilen en
kakelenden lichtwarrel, vlamden, goudden, rossigden
en barnsteenig-geelden in flonkerige sfeer, als
speelgoed van reuzen.—

Drom na drom schoot er langs, en de boomen voor de

tenten, tusschen de dolle hossers, als levende van
schrik verstarde wezens, knokelden en knoestten in
hun gekerfde schors, half belicht, de donkere kruinen
angstiglijk verruischend hoog in ’t nachtzwart.

Op Baanwijk stonden armelijk verlicht, tusschen

sjofele oliekoektentjes, roetig omwalmd van
lampetten, de palingstalletjes in geel-schichtig
lichtwaaisel, omhuifd van nachtzwart; de zuur- en
[325]eierkraampjes in nog valeren pittengloei. Achter de
zuurtonnetjes in walmig geelrood, wonderbronzig
verbangden tronies van kerels die schreeuwden tegen
’t beverig getoorts en gewaai van licht, dat rosgeel
schemerleven op de zondige zorgmommen rookte.—

Telkens wat schooierige stelletjes, waggelend en

brallend, bleven strompelen voor de kraampjes en
vraatzuchtige monden hapten lever, verkwijlden zuur;
gretige handen pelden stinkende eieren, en
ontvleesden paling. Broeirige vischstank borrelde
tusschen de bakolielucht.—
 Kerels en wijven lalden áán, bebonkerden de wrakke
kraampjes met hun vloeken en razernijen, de tronies
gedoopt in den wond’ren bronsgouden flakkergloed,
en omkropen van schaduwleven, dat meesloop wen
menschen zich tusschen de lichtdamp drongen;
schimmen als zwart-walmige nagenieters van
kermisjool. Schaduwkoppen monsterlijk doorhakt,
verdeukt en misvormd spookten donker onder en òver
’t laag gespannen zeildoek, dwars tegen bakken en
tonnen òp, warrel van schimmen, plots bij verschuif
van stoetjes raadselachtig stil verdwijnend dòor de
wrakken heen, of neerstortend in lichtval van voorbij-
kruisend licht.

Achter de armelijke kar-kraampjes, in hun droeve

prachtsfeer van geelrood en bronsros lichtgetril, half
omdampt in ’t nacht-duister, lichtten de hooge
roodbehangen speelgoedtenten, minachtend de
donk’re ruggen naar de wrakstalletjes gekeerd. Ze
schitterden in hun fel-kleurigen ballonnetjesgloei,
illuminatieachtig-hel, gegierlandeerd langs de lijnen
van vensters en gevels, doorvonkt van lichtjes.—

Het rood-gouden, rood-gele en dampig-bronzige licht

stortte, druischte neèr op den verblindenden flonker
van poppetjes, gegarneerd in prachtbonte kleeren,
omstrooid van kleurtjes, geflikker en geschitter;
omgloeide woelige snuisterijen, paardjes, schaapjes,
met vurige keelbandjes; karretjes, tooverbekertjes,
ringspellen, alles geurend in den lokkenden reuk van
nieuw speelgoed. En overal in de tenten, wond’re
fonkel en tintel van koperen belletjes en kralen, als
indische gordijnen neerhangend, [326]doorvlamd van
 licht. Overal kleurige doozen, speelgoed-geurig en
houtvervig, vol zilveren kraaltjes, goudbronzen,
melkwitte en aluminium-blanke snoertjes. Overal in
lichtdruisch, toov’rige slinger van brandend malakiet
en wijnrood geparel, onder den fellen stangboogglans
òpflitsend tusschen geurig zaagsel, als sprookjes-
schatten rondgestrooid op goud en zilverpapier;
fonkelende parels en snoeren paars en geel, vurig
groen, karmijn en wonder glanzend blauw,
opeengehoopt als ’n vlammend wereldje van zonnig
kindergeluk.

Zoò, hevig gloeide de lange laan van

speelgoedtenten, met d’r lokkende en tokkelende
kleurtjes, hun flonkerigen lichtzang, verproestend hun
glansjubel, verlachend hun rood en groen, hun
gouden zevenklapperenden gloed, hun vlammige
zonnetjes van parels en kralen. Hevig lokten ze de
kermisgangers aan, lokkend en tokkelend d’r
lichtmelodie, dat ze verbluft stand hielden voor ’t front,
uìt razenden hoswarrel.

Tusschen de Jutskoppen schreeuwden wat

spullebazen „bezienenswaardigheden” uit; rauwe
kermisspeech met angstigen suggestieklank in d’r
melodramatieke moordstemmen afgedreund.—

—Hier is te sie-en ’t gruufelijke seemonster.. met drie-

dubbele rij tande.. geschote deur een Inlans metroos,
tèrfijl dit gruufelijke monster, besig was een lèfendig
mins te verslinde!..

Moordhol timbreerde z’n stem, en vlak naast ’m klonk

’n andere zang.…
 —Hierr staat te kijk.. ’n meisje uit de binnelande van
Suid-Aùstralië.. dewelleke leefendige konijne eet,
alsmede.. tabak en gras.… Uw lieden zult haar hoore
in heur gebed aan de maan!.… En hoe sij de
bleekgesichte bloedig skalpeert.… Tien cents slechts
per persoon en per lid.—

Angstig en zwaar melodramatiekte z’n schorre stem

van de estrade àf en in valen schemer geelde z’n
gezicht even òp in den flakkerschijn van ’n kleine
flambouw boven de tenttrap. Bij elken
aandrommenden hosstoet, herhaalde ie z’n bange
woorden-vracht,.… dat ze de leefendige konijne..
verslindt met d’r slagtande, glas kouwt en brandende
sigare freet. [327]

Hossers uithijgend, bleven staan en luisterden. Naar

rechts werd z’n stem overschreeuwd door ’n buurman
die opriep de massa om te kijken naar de Zuid-
Afrikaansche Boerenworsteling, leefendig voorgesteld
in beelde.… Met ’n ècht slachtveld waar de lijke,
bloedend en onthoofd op neerlegge.…

Rond den krijsch der spullebazen, paf-knalden,

knetterden en mokerdreunden de Jutskoppen. Stel
voor stel stoette vóór de reklameplaat van ’t wilde
meisje en suggestiever huivergriezelde stem van den
omroeper.

—Verslind leèfendige konijne.… veur de ooge van ’t

publiek, eet glas en brandende sigare.… skalpeert de
bloedige menscheschedels.… Over twee minute sal
de nieuwe voorstelling een aanvang neme.… Bereids
zijn er duizende en duizende mensche reeds