The Resurrectionist

LIMBO COMICS: FROM ISSUE # 8: “To Flee the Rising Moon”

The chicken boy waited in the corridor of the county clinic, a blanket wrapped around his blood-soaked feathers. Nothing, however, covered the protruding beak, and the few doctors and nurses and aides who passed by couldn’t hide their shock and revulsion.

It was hours before the surgeon came. He was a tall, stout man who did not offer his name. He had the bearing of a sadistic policeman, though he was still dressed in yellow surgical garb that was stained about the midsection.

“You’re the one who came in with him,” the surgeon said.

Chick roused himself and let the blanket slip to the chair as he stood and nodded.

“You’re both with the Jubilee, I take it?”

Another nod.

“I ask,” said the surgeon, “because I’ve never seen you before.”

“How is my friend?” Chick asked.

“He lost a considerable amount of blood,” the surgeon said. “I’m afraid I had to amputate the arm.”

Chick again nodded his understanding.

“He’s stable,” the surgeon continued. “You can go in and see him in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Chick said.

“Don’t thank me,” the surgeon said. “It only makes this more difficult.”

“Makes what more difficult?” Chick asked.

“Normally,” putting his hands on the small of his back and stretching, “a procedure like this, I’d like to keep the patient under my care and supervision for several days, perhaps a week.”

“Normally,” Chick repeated.

“But it’s my understanding that this man is indigent.”

Chick stared, unsure of what to say.

“Is that correct?” the surgeon asked. “He has no papers? No money? No insurance?”

“It looks that way,” Chick said.

“Well, if that’s the case—” the surgeon began but Chick interrupted immediately.

“I understand what you’re saying. As soon as he’s ready to travel, I’ll take him with me.”

IT WAS CLOSE to dawn when Bruno came awake. Chick was in the chair next to the strongman’s bed, just coming out of a mild seizure. He wiped the bile from his beak and opened his eyes to see the patriarch staring at him, a slack anesthesia-cast to his huge face.

“You knew it would happen,” Bruno said in a dry voice. “You knew they’d take my arm.”

Chick shook his head, got up, and sat on the edge of the bed.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You lost a lot of blood. But the doctor says you’ll be okay.”

“I’m going to be fine?” Bruno said.

Chick put a hand on the giant’s chest.

“Let me ask you,” Bruno said. “Have you ever known a strongman with only one arm?”

“I can’t think of any,” said Chick. “Which is why you’ll be all the more unique.”

Bruno bit down on his bottom lip and squinted. He drew a hitching breath, focused on the water-stained ceiling and said, “Don’t patronize me, boy.”

“Look at me,” Chick said and waited.

After a few seconds, Bruno met his eyes.

“Would I patronize anyone?” Chick asked evenly.

“My life has been ruined,” Bruno said, “since I took up with you and your tribe.”

“I’m sorry,” Chick said. “I’m honestly sorry for everything that’s gone wrong. But understand something, Bruno. Every choice you’ve made has been your own. I know that’s not what you want to hear right now. And trust me when I tell you that it’s not what I want to say to you. But it’s the truth. You chose to come warn us back in Odradek. You chose to deliver us from McGee. You chose to come to Gehenna with us and you chose to save us from drowning.”

“So I’m a fool,” Bruno said, his voice thick with drugs and exhaustion and despair. “And now, I’m a one-armed fool.”

“Now,” Chick said, “you’re one of us.”

Bruno tried to lift his head from his pillow.

“I don’t want to be a freak,” he said.

“You’ll find,” Chick said, “that it has its advantages.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Bruno said, “when I’m working as a gazonie for the bottom-feeders.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a gazonie,” Chick said. “But you’re not made for a shovel and a broom. Not anymore, anyway. You’re one of us now, Bruno. You’re a freak. And one thing that every freak knows — better than the average person — is that life will throw catastrophe into your path. Not conflicts. Not challenges. Out and out catastrophes. And it’s during those catastrophic moments, when we’re at our most terrified and grief-stricken and enraged, that anyone can turn into a real monster. We all trip over catastrophe, Bruno. But some people turn into monsters and some don’t. And maybe that has more to do with luck than anything else. But I doubt it. I think it has to do with the people around us. I think if anything keeps us from turning into monsters, it’s the people we travel with. So you have to take real care when you choose your friends. And it seems to me, in this one area, you’ve chosen well. Most of us are good people.”

Bruno was brought up short and a little confused.

“Most of us?”

Chick shrugged and said, “We still have a ways to go. There could be more catastrophes further down the road.”

“Is this what your father told you?”

“My father said it’s time for all of us to push on. He said we’re due on the western coast. He said there’s a town called Quaboag that sits at the edge of the ocean. He said he has a mansion on a cliff above the ocean. And that he’ll be waiting for us. And he says that time is running out.”

Bruno brought his hand up to his face and covered his eyes.

“I’m so tired,” he said. “I only want to sleep right now.”

“I understand,” Chick said. “But they’re going to throw us out of here very soon. And I’m not sure what will be waiting for us back at the Jubilee.”

DR. TABER, the medical examiner, was waiting for them outside the clinic. This time he was driving a hearse. Bruno stretched out in the rear and Chick rode shotgun back to the fairgrounds. The freaks were waiting at their trailer, along with Renaldo St. Clare. No one said a word when Chick and the doctor helped Bruno through the door.

Milena and Fatos took charge of the strongman, pushing two cots together, helping him down to the mattresses and covering him with a quilt.

The ringmaster stood at the foot of the makeshift bed and bowed his head.

“I’m terribly sorry this happened,” he said to Bruno. “Believe me when I tell you that the Chief feels just awful. He’s never done anything like this before.”

“You caught him?” Chick said, taking a cup of coffee from Kitty.

“Oh, he’s in his trailer right this minute,” said the ringmaster, “thinking long and hard about this whole matter. He says he’s off the bottle for good this time and, truly, I believe him.”

“He’s in his trailer?” Chick repeated, approaching St. Clare. “What do you mean, he’s in his trailer? Why isn’t he in the town jail?”

St. Clare smiled at Chick and nodded, turned back to Bruno and bent down to pat the strongman’s leg, saying, “If there’s anything at all that you require, Mr. Seboldt, you need only ask and the Bedlam Brothers will be happy to oblige.”

Then he turned to Chick, lowered his voice, and said, “Perhaps you and I should talk outside.”

They exited the trailer and St. Clare immediately began to walk toward the midway. Chick hurried to keep up with him. The ringmaster looked at the rising sun as he began to speak.

“I think you’ll agree that we’ve got a delicate situation here.”

“I think,” Chick said, “that it’s pretty simple. Your strongman lopped off the arm of my strongman.”

“Granted,” said St. Clare. “But the brothers and I are not entirely sure that the best course of action would be to incarcerate the Chief.”

“The Chief,” Chick said, “is an alcoholic psychopath. One of these days he’ll kill a mark.”

“He felt threatened by Bruno,” the ringmaster said. “He thought he was being replaced. This is really management’s fault.”

“Then management,” Chick said, “should do the right thing and bring the Chief to the authorities.”

St. Clare stopped walking next to the elephant track and decided it was time to level with the chicken boy.

“Look,” he said, “we’re out of here in a week. This town is a little goldmine for us. And we’ve got a full circuit booked on its heels. Chief Micmac is one of our headliners. All in all, it would be a financial disaster for us to deal with this situation in an official manner.”

“Your Chief,” Chick said, “attacked my friend and cut off his arm. He needs to pay.”

“And pay,” St. Clare said, seizing on the word, “is exactly what I’ve been instructed by the brothers to propose to you.”

An elephant blew a trunk of water into the air. Chick said, “Go on.”

“It’s just that I spent the night talking to your colleagues,” the ringmaster said, “and it’s come to my attention that, like many people in our profession, you’re all traveling without any documentation. You’ve got no passports. No citizenship papers. No inoculation cards. And worse than this, they tell me you’ve got no money. You’re dead broke.”

Chick sighed and waited for the pitch.

“I’ve been there,” said St. Clare. “I know what that’s like. Which is why I think there’s a better way to deal with our situation. A better way for both of us.”

“Bruno can’t travel for a week,” Chick said. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay, so you spend the week with us. Our guests. Food and lodging on the house. And no one need perform. You relax. You take it easy. You tend to your friend. And after the closing ceremonies, we part company without animosity.”

“How much?” Chick asked.

“What did you have in mind?” St. Clare asked.

Chick stared at the man for a second, then knelt down and traced a number in the dirt with his finger. St. Clare looked at it, nodded, and toed it away.

“And some transportation,” Chick said. “A truck or a bus that can hold us all.”

St. Clare began to demur. “I’m not sure we have anything that—”

Chick cut him off, saying, “That’s the deal. The money and the vehicle. And we let the Chief off the hook.”

“I’ll have to talk to the brothers,” St. Clare said.

“You let me know what they decide,” said Chick and, without another word, he walked back to his clan.

THEY TENDED BRUNO round the clock. Not that the strongman needed much nursing. Kitty and Durga changed his bandages when necessary. The others took turns bringing him food and water and a pipe of opium, twice a day, as prescribed by Dr. Taber. Mostly, the giant slept, troubled and mumbling in his dreams, saying prayers, on occasion, in some unknown tongue, and once begging his mother for forgiveness.

When he was awake, he rejected all attempts at conversation. Many of the freaks found this unnerving, but Chick understood the need for silence and repose. It takes time to make the change to a new consciousness, he advised his brothers and sisters. It takes time to get to know the new self.

The troupe stayed away from the Jubilee show. They huddled in the trailers like prisoners. At night they sat by the window and listened to the noise of the crowds and remembered, not without sadness and regret, the adulation they had known back in Bohemia, when the audience had embraced them each night. When the audience had paid homage to their differences.

On the last night of the Jubilee, just before the start of the closing ceremonies, Bruno rose from his bed. Though a little unsteady on his feet, he made his way, with the help of Chick, to the second trailer. The freaks were listening to the sounds of a straw house, a capacity crowd waiting to be amazed one last time. The giant and the chicken boy came through the door like warriors home from a stalemate.

“I think,” Bruno said to the clan, “we should go to the show.”

Everyone looked to Chick, who said, “You heard Bruno. Get dressed. He wants us all to see the show.”

THEY GATHERED UNDERNEATH the main grandstand, watching through a jungle of legs. Milena had been opposed to vacating the trailer until they left for good. Chick found a compromise — they’d view the finale but from a hidden vantage.

The closeout was a spectacle that handily demonstrated why the Jubilee was the biggest show on the central circuit. In terms of grandeur, bravado, and pure showmanship, it exceeded the opening festivities and raised itself into an event, the kind of performance a child will carry to a distant grave. The wild beasts were more ferocious and nimble than any the troupe had ever known. The acrobats and wire walkers took risks that no sane man or woman would have considered. The clowns were uproarious and innovative. The magicians, nothing short of stupefying.

The freaks breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was announced that Chief Micmac Shawnee would not be performing due to a continued illness. Ringmaster St. Clare apologized on behalf of the Bedlam Brothers, and when he began to announce the final act of the final night of the Jubilee, the crowd soon got over whatever disappointment it might have felt at missing the psychotic strongman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster said, his words echoing around the big tent, “we now come to the moment you have all been waiting, so patiently, to arrive.”

The audience became silent in an instant and rose to their feet in unison as the house lights came down and a single spotlight illuminated Renaldo St. Clare, standing in a cloud of swirling mist. The freaks stared, as entranced as the rest, peeking through the fat calves of farm wives and around the boots of tractor salesmen.

In the middle of the center ring, St. Clare stood with his head bowed, looking down at what everyone knew to be the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole. The ringmaster made a point of toeing the soft earth where the Resurrectionist had been interred. He stared down at the ground as if gazing on all of the failings of mankind. Then he lifted his head and spoke in a clean, strong showman’s voice.

“One week ago,” he said, “you all witnessed a terrible event here under our own joyous tents.”

A pause to let the memories swim upstream.

“Here in this palace of marvels, you saw a dozen of your own citizens, your husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, step onto this midway and commit the greatest sin of all — the taking of another human life.”

Additional spots were ignited and the eye of the crowd was drawn to a sad parade of twelve townsmen, now dressed in ill-fitting prison uniforms of black and white striped denim. The men shambled like condemned slaves, their feet shackled and each carrying a shovel over a sagging shoulder. They came to a stop before the ringmaster, who placed a hand on one head and watched as the lot of them fell to their knees facing the grandstand.

“You witnessed their fatal transgression,” St. Clare said. “You saw them fall prey to their own murderous rage and do what only God may do. You watched as your own people became savage killers and dispatched a helpless man to a pitiful and agonizing demise.”

Chick squinted and could see tears running down the cheeks of many of the killers. In the seats above him, he could hear weeping from the crowd.

“You saw that hideous spectacle one week ago,” said the ringmaster. “And surely, you will never forget it. But we are called to forgive these murderers. Just as we, ourselves, are forgiven for our own failures and infractions. So let me ask you tonight, can you find it in your hearts to forgive these sinners who kneel before you?”

The murderers had hung their heads, cast their eyes to the ground. One on the end was weaving and Milena wondered if he were drunk or simply overcome with the weight of his crime. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter to the mob. They stood and cheered, clapped hands and stomped feet.

The ringmaster put his hand over his mouth for a second and then over his heart.

“You are,” he said, “a compassionate people,” and this goosed the cheering up into the realm of screaming.

St. Clare let it go on for a while and when it began to die on its own, he grabbed the collar of the murderer kneeling before him and yanked the man to his feet.

“Rise up,” he said. “Every one of you. Rise up, now. Stand like men. You are blessed to live in a town of mercy.”

When all of the killers were on their feet, the ringmaster came around and faced them.

“The people,” he bellowed, “say we must forgive you. And forgive you we surely will. But first, before any forgiveness can be bestowed, it must be earned. Through a penance.”

He turned sideways and threw an arm into the air as if presenting the killers to the audience for the first time.

“So let us see you work for your absolution.”

As if coached, all of the murderers at once took their shovels in hand and attacked the grave of Dr. Lazarus Cole.

“That’s it,” bellowed St. Clare, “let us see you earn your acquittal. Let us see you sweat for this exoneration.”

The murderers went to work with a fierce spirit, putting their backs into their labor, working up a lather of sweat. In no time they began to excavate the grave, descending into the soft earth under the breathless eye of the audience.

The ringmaster had the courage to forgo any narration and the crowd seemed to appreciate the credit he gave them. There was concentrated silence under the big top as the citizenry united in collective anticipation while the diggers sank deeper and deeper into the ground, opening a large pit around the perimeter of the grave proper.

Finally, one man stopped digging, hesitated a moment, threw his shovel aside, disappeared into the hole, came back into view and said, into Renaldo St. Clare’s waiting microphone, “We found him.”

St. Clare nodded but offered no instructions. The crowd inhaled in unison. Chick looked at Bruno, who had a hand placed lightly on his bandages and was sweating as profusely as the diggers.

Several of them now vanished down into the darkness of the hole. A series of grunts and groans became audible, as if they were struggling to move something heavy and bulky. Eight of the killers emerged from the pit and stood off to the side, leaning on their shovels, looking nervously from the ringmaster to the hole and back again.

It took a few minutes for the remaining four to climb into the spotlights. They rose slowly, moving as one. And when the crowd realized that they were carrying a corpse between them, a chorus of shrieks and howls filled the air.

The four bearers placed the body of Lazarus Cole at the feet of the ringmaster, then joined their colleagues on the other side of the pit. St. Clare looked down upon the crumpled and filthy pile of flesh and shook his head sadly. He cleared his throat and the noise of the clearing washed over the grandstand and silenced the audience.

“He was once the greatest magician on the circuit,” St. Clare said solemnly. “And it was my honor and my privilege to know him as I did and to call him my friend.”

Children could be heard crying despite their mothers’ efforts to silence them.

“The lesson we can all draw from this tragedy,” the ringmaster said, “is that sometimes the trick doesn’t work.”

Now the mothers were crying. The fathers were crying. Brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins were crying. Friends and neighbors were bawling. The entire audience was sobbing, heaving, awash in a sea of instant grief.

Which turned into shocked relief when the corpse at the ringmaster’s feet suddenly jumped up, nonchalantly brushed down its tuxedo, rolled its head around its neck, stretched its arms out in the air, and loudly proclaimed, “And sometimes it works like a charm.”

Then he gave a theatrical bow and the crowd exploded into an ovation that shook the grandstand and the big top and vibrated in the heart of every person gathered together for this macabre Jubilee.

Lazarus Cole was alive and well and no worse for the wear of a vicious beating and what appeared to be a week buried beneath the earth. He bowed twice more, once to the left and once to the right. Then in a gesture both grand and classy, he moved to greet his killers, embracing them one by one and planting a kiss on the cheek of each.

The action was too much for his murderers to bear and their shock and sorrow and joy blended and overflowed. The lot of them broke down, sobbing like infants at a harrowing birth. They embraced Dr. Cole and they embraced one another, until Dr. Taber appeared with a gazonie who led the absolved men out of the tent.

Taber received a smattering of applause but his shtick was fairly anticlimactic. He and Cole went through a pantomime of a physical exam, listening for a heartbeat, taking a pulse, checking ears, nose, and throat for normalcy.

When it was over, Taber faced the audience and proclaimed, “I find this man, Lazarus Cole, to be animate, healthy, and entirely alive.”

This set off a new burst of applause and cheering and triggered the show’s finale. The house lights came up, confetti descended, the band struck up the Bedlam Brothers anthem and the closing parade got under way, led this time by both Renaldo St. Clare and Lazarus Cole, joined arm in arm, high-stepping out of the big top, waving to an exultant crowd that had been remade into a vibrant and unified people by the ritual they had shared.

Milena was the first freak to speak. Over the ovation, she said, “Quite a trick, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t at all clear to whom s/he was speaking, but it was Nadja who answered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He wasn’t under there all week, was he?”

“Of course not,” snapped the one-armed strongman. “It’s an illusion. That’s what magic is. It’s nothing but another trick.”

“But how—” began Vasco, before Bruno cut him off.

“I don’t know how,” he said. “How the hell would I? I’m not a magician.”

“But we saw him pummeled,” said Milena. “It sure looked to me like they beat him to death.”

“There isn’t a scratch on him,” Marcel pointed out. “Not a single bruise.”

“I’m sure there’s a tunnel under the midway,” said Aziz. “Isn’t that right, Chick?”

There was no answer, and when they all looked to the chicken boy, he was on the ground, twitching and drooling.

Kitty went to him at once, but before she could manage to position his head in her lap, he was already coming out of the seizure.

“That was a short one,” Milena observed.

“Bruno,” Chick said, fighting off Kitty’s attempts to calm him.

“What is it?” asked the strongman.

“The money and the truck,” Chick croaked, choking on bile and fighting for air. “We have to leave now.”

Bruno looked from Chick to Kitty, who raised her eyebrows to indicate her confusion.

“Now, Bruno,” Chick tried to yell. “We have to go.”

The strongman put a hand over the massive dressing taped from his shoulder to his ribs. Then he ran from beneath the grandstand.

THE BROTHERS, to their credit, did not attempt to cheat Bruno and his freaks. St. Clare had an envelope waiting, filled with cash and the keys to a semi that had been used to transport several of the elephants.

The ringmaster attempted to convince Bruno and the clan to stay for the wrap party, but seeing the strongman’s urgency, he didn’t try very hard.

Bruno found the truck, managed to get it going and pulled across the fairgrounds to the camptown where the freaks were waiting for him. He left the engine idling and ran around the back to unlatch the truck’s gate.

The clan filed into the cargo box silently, most aware that something was wrong but afraid to ask anyone for details. Even Milena remained quiet despite the stench of elephant dung rising up from the floorboards.

Chick was the last to get on board, but before he could, Bruno secured the gate and put his last hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You’re riding up front with me,” Bruno said.

Chick didn’t argue. He moved to the cab and climbed up to the passenger seat. Bruno joined him on the driver’s side, slipped the vehicle into gear and steered for the county road.

After a few moments, the strongman handed the envelope across the seat to Chick, who took it and began to count the currency within.

When he was done, Bruno asked, “What was it? What did he tell you?”

Chick sighed and made a terrible sucking noise inside the beak.

“It’s the Resurrectionist,” he said.

“Cole?”

“He belongs to Fliess,” Chick said. “He was waiting to grab us. As soon as the crowd was gone.”

“How does he know?” Bruno asked and when Chick failed to answer, he turned his head to look at the boy. “How does Fliess know where we are?”

They had rolled onto the two-laner now and were picking up speed. Chick looked at Bruno, matched his stare for just a second, then looked back to the road and screamed. Bruno brought his eyes forward just in time to see Dr. Lazarus Cole standing in the middle of the road, pointing straight ahead at them. He was lit up by the truck’s high beams and both driver and passenger could see the horrible, furious expression on his face.

And then they hit him. The body was sent sailing, bouncing off the hood and pinwheeling into the dark field to their left. The noise was loud and blunt. A starburst of blood covered part of the windshield.

Bruno hesitated only a second before turning on the wipers and simultaneously pressing down on the accelerator. And Chick didn’t say a word.