The Book Man, Chapters 9-10 (Revised)

9 THE ROVER WOMAN

He had to go slowly through the maze to avoid getting lost, but once he reached the end he sped up, wound through the crowds (ducking behind a cotton-candy stand to avoid another run-in with the two overzealous ringmasters), and finally climbed back into the Rover’s wagon.

She was sitting on the edge of the bunk, cleaning the balloon-artist’s wound with thyme oil. She looked up as Christian entered and said, “Good. Give them here.”

He handed her the basket of leaves and petals and watched as she made them into a poultice and tied it tight against Conrad’s leg. The balloon-artist breathed with difficulty, his skin greyish and shining with sweat. He groaned. Christian balled his fists in his pockets to keep from covering his ears.

The Rover, in the middle of murmuring something in Gaelic comfortingly to Conrad, caught the gesture. Her expression softened.

“Go on outside,” she said. “I’ll be out with a bit of dinner for us, alright?”

He nodded and went out to sit on a log by the fire. In a short while she appeared, bearing two bowls of stew, and handed one to him. The spoon sat uselessly in his hand. The Rover gave him a sideways glance.

“If it makes you feel better, he’s doing better than most. I’ve never known anyone to come away from a hellhound attack. Usually they get gobbled right up.”

The stew smelled delicious, but at the thought of hellhounds Christian’s stomach turned.

“It doesn’t make me feel especially better,” he said.

The Rover shrugged. “At least he’s got a chance. My brother took a trip down one’s gullet. There’s no coming back from that.”

Christian opened his mouth but shut it without saying anything. They ate without speaking for a while, and then she asked, “How do you know him, then?”

“Conrad? I live across the street from his balloon-cart.”

“Across the street?” She frowned in confusion, but then her black eyes widened. “You live Outside!”

“Out—what, outside the park?” said Christian. “Of course. Don’t you?”

She shook her head. “We live here.”

A thousand questions arose in Christian’s mind, but before he could ask any of them, she held out her hand and said, “Imelda.”

“Christian. Christian Abernathy.”

They finished their stew in silence; though questions still whirled about the accountant’s head, he hardly knew where to begin. He hadn’t yet decided what to ask first when Imelda looked up at the eastern horizon, where the sky was turning grey with the cold light that preceded dawn.

“Almost sunrise,” she said. “You had better get going.”

Christian blinked at her. “What about Conrad?”

“He’s not fit to move at the moment,” she said, standing up and taking his empty bowl. “He’ll have to stay with me until he’s better.”

“What, here in the park?” Christian asked. He couldn’t help thinking people were bound to notice if a bunch of circus-folk were snoring beneath the trees in the daytime. But perhaps there were circus-folk sleeping in the park each day; he had never been inside before, after all.

“If he hasn’t explained anything to you, I don’t think I ought to either,” Imelda said. “We don’t get many Outsiders. Come back tomorrow night and you can see him.”

With that, she disappeared back into her wagon and pulled the curtain down over the entrance.

She wasn’t the only one. All around the carnival Christian saw tents collapsed, food stands tossing the last of their wares to hungry fair-goers, draft horses hitched to the vardos. Cries of “Dawn! Almost dawn, lads” rang throughout the clearing; already some of the circus-folk began making their way in the direction of the rose beds. Christian repressed an urge to join them and hurried off in the other direction, through the wood toward the park gate.

It was only when he got there he remembered the key to the padlock was back in Imelda’s wagon, in the pocket of Conrad’s waistcoat.

10 THE TELEPHONE CALL

An explosion of birdsong from Celadon Park awoke Christian much earlier Sunday morning than he would’ve cared to wake. Usually he enjoyed lying in bed, listening to the birds while the cat kneaded his stomach; it was his favorite thing about living across the street from the park. This morning, however, he would have preferred to be left alone to sleep.

For a long while he lay in bed, wondering why he was so exhausted. It could not have been because he’d been in Celadon Park until sunrise, waiting for the guard who arrived at dawn to unlock the gate. That could not have happened. It must have been a dream: the horse-sized dog pounding down the street, Conrad’s injured leg, the crow snatching at his hair. The guard glaring at him as he stammered an explanation for his presence in a park that should have emptied out at sunset. And Minerva.

From the study, the telephone jangled. No one ever called him but the accounting firm and Conrad. The firm was closed on Sundays; it must have been the balloon-artist, safe at home. Last night had been a dream after all. Christian hardly knew whether to feel relieved or disappointed. The balloon-artist was unscathed, but Minerva and the magic and beauty of the park did not exist. He had nothing more to look forward to than a day of reading before returning to the accounting firm on Monday.

He put the cat on the floor and made his way to the study, chiding himself for his stupidity. Of course reading was all he had to look forward to. It was the only way he would ever go on adventures, because vicarious adventuring was the only kind he would ever be brave enough for.

It took a moment to find the telephone: he rarely used it and tended to leave it wherever he’d last been talking. He shoved aside the books and papers on his desk until he found the phone beneath a pile of field guides from the 1980s.

“Hello?”

“Christian?”

It wasn’t Conrad; it was his wife, Liza.

“Yes,” he said.

“I was just wondering—” She hesitated, and he pictured her winding the cord of her phone around her forefinger as she did whenever someone called as they were about to leave for dinner. She cleared her throat. “I was just wondering—if by any chance—you might know where Conrad is?”

Christian’s heart skipped a beat.

“Isn’t he at home?” he asked.

There was a rush of static as she let out a breath into the mouthpiece.

“That’s the thing,” she said. “He never came home last night.”

Christian’s mouth went dry. It wasn’t possible.

“But—but I saw him go to the bus stop—”

No, he thought, it had all been a dream—hadn’t it? If it hadn’t, Conrad was with Imelda, healing (he hoped), and (his heart leapt at the thought) Minerva was real after all.

“Christian? You still there, honey?”

He nodded. Then he realized Liza couldn’t see him and said yes instead. His brain whirled with potential explanations, for how could he tell her the truth?

He couldn’t, he decided, but Liza was talking again and he hastened to listen.

“—see if he was with you,” she said. “Thanks anyway. Give us a ring if you hear from him, will you?”

“Goodbye—I mean, yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. Good day.”

He put the telephone down with relief. No need to explain anything, not yet, at least. But tonight he would have to return to the park and see it all again—just to make sure.