only conjecture that the Caliph recognized the voice of the monster who had eviscerated his master. Even after grinding the doctor into a paste scarcely identifiable as the remains of a human being, if human he ever was, the elephant continued to trumpet. Morgan yanked his pinioned sleeve away from the outhouse door and ripped his head free from the flaming spear, leaving a singed hank of his dark gold hair fixed to the target.
As the maskers scattered, Birdcall clung shrieking to Morgan. Someone fired off a shot, and Dolton came running. In the pandemonium, Morgan grabbed his cousin by the shoulders. "The elephant's yours to take care of, Dolt. He'll pull your boat, and I know you'll treat him well."
"Morgie!" Dolt said, clasping Morgan's hand.
"I'll see you when I see you, cousin," Morgan said, and started across the swing-bridge with Birdcall scampering by his side. He was sorry to part with the Caliph but certain that he had left him, as he'd promised the gypsy, with the best-hearted person he knew.
Morgan looked back once. The awful iron box encasing the doctor's clubfoot sat in the street in front of Mother Hubbard's, as innocent as a boot in a cobbler's window. Otherwise nothing remained of the creature that could not be scraped into the canal the next morning on the blade of a coal shovel.
Tally two , Morgan thought as he walked into the night with Birdcall clinging to his arm. He wondered what would become of the outsized black shoe. He wondered what would become of himself, adrift in a world compared to which the most fantastical depictions in E. A. Poe's stories seemed ordinary. He began to count his steps, hoping thereby to tether himself to what he could remember of his life at home in Vermont, where counting tallied hen's eggs andpounds of butter, not killers eliminated. He could not seem to get past two. First Ludi. Now the doctor. Tally two .
It occurred to him that after Gettysburg Pilgrim might have fled north to Canada. Or returned to Glasgow to study with Lister. No matter. Morgan could not have turned back now if he'd wanted to. He kept walking.
F OUR
PERTH
D awn broke over the desolate countryside, a forlorn study in browns and grays, muted tones for muted times when color, like hope itself, seemed to have been drained out of the land. Elsewhere in upper York State it was springtime, with bold new shoots of grass and nodding daffodils and spun-gold buds on the trees heralding the new season. In the hinterlands between Utica and Elmira all seemed dreary and diminished. The hills were not high enough to be called mountains, the streams too slow and narrow for true rivers, the kine in the farmyards as lean as those in Pharaoh's dream. The Hardscrabble, as this region was called, was not a war-torn land but for all the world looked to be, with its played-out fields grown up to thorn apple and river birch and juniper and barberry, its dilapidated houses and sagging barns with crumbling sandstone foundations, its dispiriting four-corner country storesreeking of coal oil and moldy cheese, horse liniment and manure. Poverty Ridge. Fool Hill. Second Coming. The River Styx. The names scrawled on the crooked signposts Morgan passed told well the tale of the Hardscrabble. Hollow-eyed women, widowed by the war at twenty, gaunt and aged at thirty, watched him and Birdcall from their dooryards. The children looked worm-ridden and rickety. The wind whistled out of the north. Morgan's musket and the scattershot hanging from his neck grew heavier with each mile, and he could not stop thinking of the war.
Some of the recruits clamoring to enlist in Utica were scarcely older than he was. Soon enough they would see combat so bloody that his encounters with Ludi and Doctor Surgeon would seem like schoolyard scuffles. Yet from the moment they donned their blue uniforms, their thinking would all be done for them, often in faraway citadels by gray-bearded men who, when they came to die, would do so in their
As the maskers scattered, Birdcall clung shrieking to Morgan. Someone fired off a shot, and Dolton came running. In the pandemonium, Morgan grabbed his cousin by the shoulders. "The elephant's yours to take care of, Dolt. He'll pull your boat, and I know you'll treat him well."
"Morgie!" Dolt said, clasping Morgan's hand.
"I'll see you when I see you, cousin," Morgan said, and started across the swing-bridge with Birdcall scampering by his side. He was sorry to part with the Caliph but certain that he had left him, as he'd promised the gypsy, with the best-hearted person he knew.
Morgan looked back once. The awful iron box encasing the doctor's clubfoot sat in the street in front of Mother Hubbard's, as innocent as a boot in a cobbler's window. Otherwise nothing remained of the creature that could not be scraped into the canal the next morning on the blade of a coal shovel.
Tally two , Morgan thought as he walked into the night with Birdcall clinging to his arm. He wondered what would become of the outsized black shoe. He wondered what would become of himself, adrift in a world compared to which the most fantastical depictions in E. A. Poe's stories seemed ordinary. He began to count his steps, hoping thereby to tether himself to what he could remember of his life at home in Vermont, where counting tallied hen's eggs andpounds of butter, not killers eliminated. He could not seem to get past two. First Ludi. Now the doctor. Tally two .
It occurred to him that after Gettysburg Pilgrim might have fled north to Canada. Or returned to Glasgow to study with Lister. No matter. Morgan could not have turned back now if he'd wanted to. He kept walking.
F OUR
PERTH
D awn broke over the desolate countryside, a forlorn study in browns and grays, muted tones for muted times when color, like hope itself, seemed to have been drained out of the land. Elsewhere in upper York State it was springtime, with bold new shoots of grass and nodding daffodils and spun-gold buds on the trees heralding the new season. In the hinterlands between Utica and Elmira all seemed dreary and diminished. The hills were not high enough to be called mountains, the streams too slow and narrow for true rivers, the kine in the farmyards as lean as those in Pharaoh's dream. The Hardscrabble, as this region was called, was not a war-torn land but for all the world looked to be, with its played-out fields grown up to thorn apple and river birch and juniper and barberry, its dilapidated houses and sagging barns with crumbling sandstone foundations, its dispiriting four-corner country storesreeking of coal oil and moldy cheese, horse liniment and manure. Poverty Ridge. Fool Hill. Second Coming. The River Styx. The names scrawled on the crooked signposts Morgan passed told well the tale of the Hardscrabble. Hollow-eyed women, widowed by the war at twenty, gaunt and aged at thirty, watched him and Birdcall from their dooryards. The children looked worm-ridden and rickety. The wind whistled out of the north. Morgan's musket and the scattershot hanging from his neck grew heavier with each mile, and he could not stop thinking of the war.
Some of the recruits clamoring to enlist in Utica were scarcely older than he was. Soon enough they would see combat so bloody that his encounters with Ludi and Doctor Surgeon would seem like schoolyard scuffles. Yet from the moment they donned their blue uniforms, their thinking would all be done for them, often in faraway citadels by gray-bearded men who, when they came to die, would do so in their
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