a
free show now would mean better word of mouth for the paid show later. Even a carnival without a secret
mission put on ballies from time to time.
The hypocephalus, which to the dwarf sounded like the name
of a particularly nasty strain of a soldiers’ disease, was pinned against an
upright display board. It was a
complicated circular diagram, full of little drawings of stick figures,
thrones, animal-headed people, stars and squiggles, all inked onto a tattered
piece of yellow cloth that might have been linen, or something really old,
anyway.
It looked Egyptian. Like the scarabs, though, it was bunkum, and Jed knew it. Some Richmond clever-dick had painted
it. Poe always called it the hypnotic
hypocephalus , but Hunley and his boys were
geniuses, and Jed figured you could probably wear the thing over your face and
it would let you breathe underwater or spit flame or deflect bullets. Poe probably knew, but he’d never told
Jed. Still, bunkum aside, he did
his best to look fascinated and attentive, to encourage the audience be fascinated
and attentive, too.
Poe stood to one side of the hypocephalus in his full
carnival-gypsy-snake oil-doctor costume, on a low platform that looked
improvised out of a wooden pallet; for that matter, Jed reflected, he hadn’t
seen his boss out of costume since they’d left Richmond. He hadn’t even taken off the fake nose
and beard, unless he’d done so out of the dwarf’s sight. To the other side of the hypocephalus
stood the Englishman Burton, jaw resolutely clenched and eyes burning like his
stare alone could punch through the walls of the steam-truck.
“Behold,” Burton called out his stubborn
counter-introduction, “Doctor Archibald’s famous ancient Egyptian pillow!”
The old carny in Jed almost laughed at the big
explorer—he’d done such a good job increasing interest and therefore
attendance, Jed doubted any shill could have done any better. The stateroom of the Liahona looked
like it might have been built to seat twenty for dinner. Whatever table usually filled its floor
was gone, though, and in thirty-odd folding wooden chairs, paying passengers sat
and stared. Burton’s associate,
the diplomat Absalom Fearnley-Standish, was one of them. He sat beside a pair of empty seats,
looking lonely and forlorn as he protected them with a battered top hat that
was missing part of its brim. No
sign of the woman Jed was waiting for, though. That was a shame; it wouldn’t hurt to collect a little cash
from the evening’s show, but really, of course, it was supposed to be a
distraction. Oh, well, maybe he’d
have to be satisfied with just dealing with the Englishmen.
Poe smiled at Burton’s jab and continued. Even in the weak electric light of the
stateroom (pulsing blue from glass globes pegged in two rows to the room’s
ceiling), he wore his smoked spectacles. If pressed, he would claim that his eyes were weak, but of course the
glasses were an important component of his disguise.
As was the show.
“My colleague would describe the great pyramids of Giza as
mere tombs,” Poe said with a wise and condescending smile. “The sorcerer-priests of Memphis and of
Thebes have long had the practice, handed down to them by their forefathers,
who learned the dark arts at the feet of Hermes Trismegistos, the great
Ibis-headed Thoth himself, of sleeping with their heads upon cloths such as
this.” He locked his eyes upon a
pair of spinsterly women in the front row and proceeded to talk to them
intimately, as if giving a private lecture, switching his gaze exclusively back
and forth between the two. “You
observe the great throne at the center, the rightways upper section and the inverted
underworld, the stars and the symbols of the great expanse of earth. The hypocephalus is nothing less than a
map of the universe, as known to the ancients, and dreaming Egyptian sorcerers
drew from it the power to control their
free show now would mean better word of mouth for the paid show later. Even a carnival without a secret
mission put on ballies from time to time.
The hypocephalus, which to the dwarf sounded like the name
of a particularly nasty strain of a soldiers’ disease, was pinned against an
upright display board. It was a
complicated circular diagram, full of little drawings of stick figures,
thrones, animal-headed people, stars and squiggles, all inked onto a tattered
piece of yellow cloth that might have been linen, or something really old,
anyway.
It looked Egyptian. Like the scarabs, though, it was bunkum, and Jed knew it. Some Richmond clever-dick had painted
it. Poe always called it the hypnotic
hypocephalus , but Hunley and his boys were
geniuses, and Jed figured you could probably wear the thing over your face and
it would let you breathe underwater or spit flame or deflect bullets. Poe probably knew, but he’d never told
Jed. Still, bunkum aside, he did
his best to look fascinated and attentive, to encourage the audience be fascinated
and attentive, too.
Poe stood to one side of the hypocephalus in his full
carnival-gypsy-snake oil-doctor costume, on a low platform that looked
improvised out of a wooden pallet; for that matter, Jed reflected, he hadn’t
seen his boss out of costume since they’d left Richmond. He hadn’t even taken off the fake nose
and beard, unless he’d done so out of the dwarf’s sight. To the other side of the hypocephalus
stood the Englishman Burton, jaw resolutely clenched and eyes burning like his
stare alone could punch through the walls of the steam-truck.
“Behold,” Burton called out his stubborn
counter-introduction, “Doctor Archibald’s famous ancient Egyptian pillow!”
The old carny in Jed almost laughed at the big
explorer—he’d done such a good job increasing interest and therefore
attendance, Jed doubted any shill could have done any better. The stateroom of the Liahona looked
like it might have been built to seat twenty for dinner. Whatever table usually filled its floor
was gone, though, and in thirty-odd folding wooden chairs, paying passengers sat
and stared. Burton’s associate,
the diplomat Absalom Fearnley-Standish, was one of them. He sat beside a pair of empty seats,
looking lonely and forlorn as he protected them with a battered top hat that
was missing part of its brim. No
sign of the woman Jed was waiting for, though. That was a shame; it wouldn’t hurt to collect a little cash
from the evening’s show, but really, of course, it was supposed to be a
distraction. Oh, well, maybe he’d
have to be satisfied with just dealing with the Englishmen.
Poe smiled at Burton’s jab and continued. Even in the weak electric light of the
stateroom (pulsing blue from glass globes pegged in two rows to the room’s
ceiling), he wore his smoked spectacles. If pressed, he would claim that his eyes were weak, but of course the
glasses were an important component of his disguise.
As was the show.
“My colleague would describe the great pyramids of Giza as
mere tombs,” Poe said with a wise and condescending smile. “The sorcerer-priests of Memphis and of
Thebes have long had the practice, handed down to them by their forefathers,
who learned the dark arts at the feet of Hermes Trismegistos, the great
Ibis-headed Thoth himself, of sleeping with their heads upon cloths such as
this.” He locked his eyes upon a
pair of spinsterly women in the front row and proceeded to talk to them
intimately, as if giving a private lecture, switching his gaze exclusively back
and forth between the two. “You
observe the great throne at the center, the rightways upper section and the inverted
underworld, the stars and the symbols of the great expanse of earth. The hypocephalus is nothing less than a
map of the universe, as known to the ancients, and dreaming Egyptian sorcerers
drew from it the power to control their
Similar Books
