The Circus of Dr Lao and Other Improbable Stories Page 5

  “We caught this fellow near the town of Tu-jeng in North China close to the Great Wall. We caught him in a net by a little waterfall, a net which we had set for a chimera. Incidentally, although we did not know it at that time, it is impossible to catch a chimera in a net by reason of its fiery breath, which burns up the meshes. But more of that later.

  “Satyrs are not omnivorous like man, but rather herbivorous like the goat. We feed this fellow nuts and berries and herbs. He will also eat lettuces and some cabbage. He has always refused onions and garlic seed, however. And he drinks nothing but wine.

  “Notice that he has a gold ring in his nose. I cannot account for it. It was there when we first captured him, but I do not know how it got there.

  “Note also that this satyr is a very old one. I doubt not that he is one of the original satyrs of ancient Hellas. Obviously, being half-gods, satyrs live a long, long time. I place this fellow’s age at nearly two thousand three hundred years, although Apollonius, my colleague, is inclined to grant him even more. If he could talk, he might tell us some very curious things about his existence. How the encroachment of the hostile Christian deity drove him and his kind out of the Hellenic hills to seek refuge in unamiable lands. How some of his relatives went north into Europe to become strange gods, like Adonis becoming Balder, or Circe becoming one of the Lorelei, or the Lares Domestici becoming cuckoo clocks and mantel statuettes. Yes, he could tell much, I fancy.

  “But most interesting of all would be the narration of his own journey into China, his bewilderment at the lacquer temples and prayer wheels, his disgust at the hot spiced Chinese wines, and his sadness at the footbound Chinese maidens who could not dance to his piping. Hey, the forlorn, lost demigod.

  “Satyrs originated, I fancy, back in the old pastoral days when men stayed out in the hills with their flocks for long periods of time. Among other things, to amuse themselves and soothe their flocks, the shepherds would play on pipes such as this fellow has here with him. And, doubtless too, on the hills at night by their fires the shepherds would dream of love. Men do dream of love, you know; lonely men do. Well, they would dream of love, and their dreams would be of such potency that their very flocks would be colored by them. In the moonlight’s magic, perhaps, a she-goat would be transformed into a charming girl. . . . And then in lambing time a strange, wee fellow would be seen cavorting among the woolly babies. On his brow he bears his mother’s horns; his feet are hoofed like hers; but for the rest he is a man. He grows up to become scornful of the stodgy sheep and goats and shy of man. He steals his father’s lute and skips away. Simple folk see him at dusk by a lakeside, and a new pastoral god is born. . . .

  “The satyr sits by some mirrored lake and plays, and even the little fishes swarm about and mimic a dance, for the music of the satyr’s pipes is irresistible. He plays on his pipes, and the leaves on the trees dance, and the worms stick their heads out of their holes and writhe, and under the rocks scorpion hugs scorpion in hot, orgiastic bliss. . . . And, by and by, a nymph comes shyly to peep through the vines. . . .

  “But that was a long time ago, and this is an old, old satyr. I doubt if he could do anything like that now. Let us go on to the next tent and see the sea serpent. This way, please.”

  The whole Rogers family came to the circus grounds a little after two that afternoon. The children were excited because they were about to see the circus; the mother was buoyant because her husband had a job again.

  “Now I aint got a heck of a lot of money,” said papa, “but we can see a sideshow or two, I reckon, and then go on into the main show. What sideshow do you kids want to see first?”

  Unable to make up their minds, the children wrangled peevishly among themselves.

  “Tell you what,” said Mrs. Rogers after listening to them for a while; “let’s go see that bear or man or Russian or whatever it is. I really would like to see it just to find out why it causes so many arguments.”

  Plumber John agreed; the family went in search of the bear tent. They couldn’t find it. Then Doctor Lao came out on the platform again, recited his poem again, and started to talk about the show again.

  John Rogers went up beside the platform and called to him: “Say, doc, where do you all keep the big bear at? We want to see it again. The one that was in the parade this morning.”

  “Me no sawee bear business,” said the doctor and plunged on in his speech:

  “In the tent to the right, ladies and gentlemen, you will find that world-famous thaumaturgist, Apollonius of Tyana, born contemporary with Christ. ‘Socrates,’ they used to say, leaves men on the earth, Apollonius transports them to heaven; Socrates is but a sage. Apollonius is a god.’ Well, he’s over there in the next tent ready to perform a miracle or two for your edification. You will find him an old, old man. He has been alive since the Christian era began, and his years are beginning to show on him. Also, he has but recently learned English; bear with him there and do not laugh at his mistakes. Remember, he is the man who remained silent for five whole years listening to the counsel of his heart, the man who conversed with the astrologers of Chaldea and told them things they had never dreamed, the man who prophesied the death of the Emperor Domitian, the man who underwent the eighty tests of Mithra. In the tent to the right, ladies and gentlemen. Ten cents admission. Children in arms free.”

  “Hey, doc,” said Plumber Rogers again, “whereabouts is the big bear? We all wanta see it again.”

  “Me no sawee bear business,” said Doctor Lao and continued:

  “In this tent to my left, good people, is one of those startling women, a medusa. One look out of her eyes and you turn to stone.”

  The doctor opened the tent door behind him and revealed a stone figure.

  “This is what is left of a person in the last town where we showed. He would not heed my warning to look only at the medusa’s reflection in a mirror. Instead he sneaked behind the canvas guardrail and stared her straight in the face. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what is left of him. He doesn’t make a very good statue, does he? Let me implore you, ladies and gentlemen, when you go into that tent, for your own good, look at her only in the mirror. It is very distressing for us always to have one or two customers turned to stone at every performance, besides being very difficult to explain to the police. So, once again, I ask you to look only at the medusa’s reflection, not at the lady herself.”

  John Rogers tweaked the hem of the doctor’s gown. “We wanta see the big bear, doc, me and the wife and the kids. Which tent is it in?”

  Doctor Lao frowned down on the plumber. “Whatsa mattah allee time talkee talk bear business? Me no sawee bear business. You no like this Gloddam show, you go somewhere else.” The doctor spread wide his arms and swept on in his discourse:

  “Possibly the strangest of all the animals in this menagerie, and certainly one which none of you should miss seeing, is that most unique of all beasts, the hound of the hedges. Evolved among the hedgerows and grassplots of North China this animal is the living, breathing symbol of greenness, of fecund, perennial plant life, of the transitional stage between vegetable and animal. The greatest scientists of the world have studied this hound and cannot decide whether he is fauna or flora. Your guess, ladies and gentlemen, is as good as the next. When you examine him, you will notice that, although his form is that of the usual dog, his various bodily parts are those of plants. His teeth, for instance, are stiff, thick thorns; his tail is a plait of ferns; his fur is grass; his claws are burrs; his blood is chlorophyll. Surely this is the weirdest beast under the casual canopy of heaven. We feed him hedge apples and green walnuts. Sometimes, too, though not often, he will eat persimmons. Let me advise you, good people, to see the hound of the hedges even though you must forgo seeing the mermaid or the werewolf. The hound is unique.”

  “I can’t seem to get much information out of the old boy,” said the plumber to his wife. “Let’s look at something else first; then maybe we can find the bear later.”

  �
�Well,” said Mrs. Rogers, “suppose we watch the magician. I think the children would like that.”

  So the plumber and his family went into the tent to the right to watch Apollonius perform. Except for the mage they were the only ones in the tent.

  Apollonius looked at them dreamily as they filed in. “It will be ten cents apiece,” he said. John Rogers handed him a half-dollar. The thaumaturge put the coin in an old cigar box and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Now what sort of magic would you be wanting to see?” he asked.

  “I want to see you take a pig out of this bag,” said Alice, holding up to him her little sack of candy.

  “Elementary, my child, elementary,” said Apollonius. He inserted two fingers into the mouth of the candy sack and drew out a Poland China shoat. It squealed and writhed and kicked its little legs. The magician handed it to Willie. “You keep this, lad. Feed it well. It ought to make good sidemeat some day.”

  “Oh, goodness,” said Mrs. Rogers, “we haven’t room for a pig, really. Our place is so small, you know.”

  “Urn,” said Apollonius. “What a pity.” He took the pig away from Willie and shoved it back in the sack. “It was such a nice pig, too. What do you want me to do now?”

  “Know any card tricks?” asked Mr. Rogers.

  “A multitude of them,” said Apollonius. He reached into a pocket of his gown, took out a pack of cards and shuffled them with one hand. The cards climbed and fell in graceful spirals and parabolas, pyramiding and mixing and disintegrating, but always returning into a neat square-sided pack.

  “This is not magic,” commented the wizard. “This is only manual dexterity. Shall I convert some wine into water for you?”

  “Why not change water into wine?” asked the plumber.

  “I can do that as readily,” said the magician. He took up a beaker of water and mumbled over it. It changed color; a soft vinous odor was diffused in the air. He handed the beaker to Mr. Rogers. “Try a sip.”

  John tasted it. “Sherry,” he said.

  Apollonius tasted it. “I’d call it muscatel,” he corrected. “What do you say it is, madam?”

  Mrs. Rogers tried the wine. “It’s a little like that in church,” she said thoughtfully. “Of course, that’s the only wine I ever drank before, so I don’t know how to compare it.”

  “Well, it’s not sacramental wine,” said Apollonius. “I’m sure of that. But drink it up before Doctor Lao sees it. He doesn’t like to have alcohol on the grounds.”

  Edna Rogers tugged at her mother.

  “Mother, have him do something we like,” she pouted*

  “Do you care for flowers?” asked Apollonius.

  “A little,” said Edna.

  “Naw, we don’t like ‘em,” said Willie.

  “Oh, yes, make some flowers for the children,” said Mrs. Rogers.

  The thaumaturge made passes in the air, and pink rose petals fell all about the family and on their shabby shoulders. He made more passes, and violets grew about their feet. Black flowers, yellow edged, climbed the sides of the tent. Mauve flowers with fuzzy tops and thin green leaves sprang up among the violets. A great grey flower on a hairy stalk floated up over their heads. It had a beard like a goat. Spikes and spines clustered the edges of its uneven petals.

  Apollonius regarded the big blossom in wonderment. “Goodness,” he said, “I never made a flower like that one before in all my life. I wonder what kind it could be. Do you know, mister?”

  “Naw,” said the plumber. “I don’t know a whole lot of flowers. Just the common kinds like dandelions and all.”

  “Well,” said Apollonius, “it’s a big brute, whatever it is.”

  “I think you do the cleverest tricks,” said Mrs. Rogers. “Don’t you, children?”

  Touched to the quick, the mage said: “Oh, these aren’t tricks, madam. Tricks are things that fool people. In the last analysis tricks are lies. But these are real flowers, and that was real wine, and that was a real pig. I don’t do tricks. I do magic. I create; I transpose; I color; I transubstantiate; I break up; I recombine; but I never trick. Would you like to see a turtle? I can create a very superior turtle.”

  “I do,” said Willie. “I want to see a turtle.”

  The magician kicked away some of the violets until he came to the bare soil. Enough of this he scraped up to fill both hands. He molded the earth between his fingers, smoothing it and shaping it and patting it and rubbing it. It became yellow and thick and malleable.

  “Oh, oh!” said Alice. “Look, it’s changing into a turtle. Gee, that’s a wonderful trick.”

  Apolloriius placed the turtle on the ground. Its head was withdrawn into its shell. He tapped on its back with a twig. “That generally makes them stick their heads out,” he explained.

  After a moment or so of being tapped the turtle did stick its head out. But instead of a single head it produced two. The heads were side by side, joined to the neck like the forks of a stick. The two heads opened their four eyes and two mouths and yawned. Then each head tried to start in a different direction.

  “Oh, goodness,” said Apollonius disgustedly, “I would botch the job just when I wanted to do a really neat piece of magic for you. Imagine making such a freak of a thing! Two heads! Really, I apologize. I’m ashamed at my ineptitude.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said the plumber. “I guess them things are kinda hard to make right anyway.”

  Some more people came crowding into the tent, Doctor Lao following them.

  “Uh, Apollonius,” whispered the doctor, “I promised these folks you would resurrect a man from the dead for them. You’ll do it, won’t you? They all expressed themselves as being very much interested in watching you at it.”

  “Why, certainly,” the wizard whispered back. “But, doctor, have we got a corpse?”

  “I’ll go and see,” said the old Chinaman.

  The crowd of people milled around on the flowers and frightened the turtle so that it pulled its heads back into its shell again. A big fat woman stepped on it* She looked down to see what was under her foot.

  “Good God Almighty, Luther, there’s a turtle in here!” she screeched.

  “Where? Where?” asked Luther nervously, “Where the hell is it, Kate?”

  “Right under my feet,” sobbed Kate.

  “It won’t hurt you,” said Mr. Rogers. “It’s a real tame turtle, I think.”

  Luther pulled Kate aside and stared down at the chelonian. “It don’t look tame to me.”

  “It’s got two heads; hasn’t it, mother?” said Willie.

  “By God, I knew there was something queer about it,” said Luther.

  Doctor Lao came back in the tent with a big bundle in his arms.

  “I got one,” he whispered to Apollonius.

  “Now stand back, all you people, around the edges of the tent,” directed the doctor. “Apollonius of Tyana is about to perform the greatest piece of magic in several centuries. Before your very eyes he will restore life to a lifeless corpse. Before your very eyes the dead will become quick again. And at no further cost to you than what you paid to enter this tent. Stand aside, ladies and gentlemen; stand aside, please! Give the man all the room he needs.”

  Apollonius stooped over and unrolled the bundle. A little shrivelled dead man, one who had been a laborer of some sort, was disclosed. He had on overalls, old worn army shoes with leather laces in them, a blue hickory shirt, and an old worn-out cowboy hat. In the leather sweat band of the hat were the initials “R.K.” floridly delineated in indelible pencil. One of the leather shoestrings in the man’s old worn-out army shoes had been broken and retied in several places. The knots looked as if they might have been done by a seafaring man.

  Apollonius placed the cadaver on its side, drawing the arms up above the head. He bent the knees and slightly spread the legs. The corpse looked as if it was sleeping in a very uncomfortable position.

  Appollonius began to pray a low, thick prayer. His eyeballs turned dead green; t
hin, hazy stuff floated out of his ears. He prayed and prayed and prayed. To the subtle spirit of life he sent his terrible invocation.

  Then all of a sudden, when everyone was most expecting it, the dead man came to life, sat up, coughed, and rubbed his eyes.

  “Where the devil am I?” he wanted to know.

  “You’re at the circus,” said the doctor.

  “Well, lemme outa here,” said the man. “I got business to attend to.”

  He got to his feet and started off with a slight limp.

  Luther caught his arm as he made for the door. “Listen, mister,” he asked, “was you really dead?”

  “Deader than hell, brother,” said the man and hurried on out of the tent.

  At about two-thirty two policemen arrived at the circus grounds to look the show over and see that nothing inimical to the public interest took place. One of the cops was a big fat jolly ignorant-looking guy; the other was a tall thin ugly man. They wore uniforms, Sam Browne belts, sidearms and shiny, brass badges. Doctor Lao spotted them from afar and slipped up behind them.

  “Whatsah mattah? Chase crook? Somebody steal? Whatsah mattah cops come this Gloddam place? This my show, by Glod!”

  “Now don’t get all excited,” said the fat cop. “We just come out to look around a little. Jest keep yer shirt on, slant-eye. We aint gonna arrest nobody unless they needs it. We’re officers; how about us takin’ in a few of these here sideshows?”

  The Circus of Dr. Lao Si

  “Make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” said Doctor Lao. “Go where you please when you please. I shall instruct the ticket-takers to let you in wherever you may choose to go.”

  ‘That’s the way to talk,” said the policeman. “Whattayah got that’s hot right now?”

  “The sideshows are all open. Go anywhere you please,” said the doctor. “You must excuse me now; I must go and give my lecture on the medusa.”