Pandora Gets Vain (Pandora (Hardback)) (17 page)
“Yum!” said Alcie. “What a shame we missed all that!”
Pandy sent a mental thank-you to Morpheus for having knocked her out so completely for an entire day. Then she pinched Alcie.
“Ow! Okay, I’ll be good.”
When Pandy had emptied all the bowls (with a great deal of loud chewing), a feat at which even the old woman, Mai Fung Tan, had just stared, she sank into the apricot pillow and gave an unexpected but tremendous burp. Wang Chun Lo clapped his hands in delight, then again raised his forefinger and the entire tent fell silent, waiting.
“Pandora,” he began. “I believe we had just come to the part where your companion, Alcie, had caught you in her arms as the whirling black wind threw you from the ship, shielding you from harm as you splashed into the ocean. No . . . wait . . . we were past that. Ah, yes, what happened after Alcie led the dolphins to your rescue? No . . . no . . . wait . . . we were past that as well. What happened after Alcie spotted the place for your landing in Egypt?”
Pandy slowly turned to look at Alcie.
Alcie cleared her throat and smiled coyly.
“Well . . . ,” Pandy began.
She told of the Chamber of Despair, from first falling though the desert floor to at last reemerging onto the temple terrace. When she finished, the tent was silent again. Then a huge man with a red braid who called himself Olaf held aloft a double-headed ax in salute and called out a greeting in Vik, the ancient language of the Vikings. Pandy smiled and answered back. One by one, members of the troupe rose and introduced themselves. Usumacinta hailed her in lyrical Mayan. Four beautiful, black-haired Arabian girls—Almase, Mahfouza, Nabile, and Sabahat—sang out in unison while a bald woman, Mehlika, wearing a turquoise top and yellow pants, said hello in a biting Hittite dialect. Two girls the color of rust stood up and spoke in rapid Ethiopian. Pandy gasped to see that they were actually joined together at the waist and had only three legs between them. Then three tiny men with red dots on their foreheads greeted her in Hindi as others called out hellos. Latin. Gallic. Persian. Anatolian.
Pandy, Alcie, Iole, and Homer answered them all.
“Even knowing how you came by this knowledge of languages makes it no less amazing to witness,” said Wang Chun Lo. He turned to the crowd. “And now that we have all dined well and truly met our guests, it is time . . .”
The crowd groaned.
“No! Not yet! Let’s hear more!” came resounding cries.
Wang Chun Lo calmly withdrew his gnarled hands from within his orange robe. “Need I remind you that not only was your practice interrupted yesterday due to the unexpected arrival of our most honored guests, but that our last show in Peking was—how shall I put it?— abysmal.”
“But we’re a joke! People expect us to be abysmal,” said Olaf.
“We’re always terrible,” said Usumacinta, over a murmur of general agreement.
“We’re not!” Wang Chun Lo shot back, a brittle sharpness in his voice. At once, everyone was silent. “We do not travel the world, erecting these pavilions and taking men’s coin only to be thought of as disappointing! Perhaps we have slight miscalculations here and there, but I do not pay you to be second rate! We are not jokes! We are performers, my friends, not merely oddities for casual viewing.”
Pandy looked at the two Ethiopian girls, sitting in a bizarre three-cross-legged position.
“Each one of you is a walking miracle, and together we are a collection of—”
“Whimsical Manifestations of Nature’s Good Humor,” they all said in unison.
“Yes! And if your manifestations are to be ready for the city of Alexandria and the young queen Cleopatra, your skills must be much, much sharper. Which reminds me, everyone, brush up on your Egyptian.”
“I don’t need any practice,” croaked Mai Fung Tan. “I am as sharp as a knife. You dishonor your mother and your ancestors to say that my skills of sight and prophecy are otherwise.”
With that, she leaned far forward off her yellow cushion and grabbed Homer’s right hand, stretching it out across the small table. Homer, who didn’t even twitch when he’d have a finger or toe sewn back on by the school physician after every sparring match at gladiator school, now froze in terror at the old woman’s touch; unblinking, she held his palm to her yellowed eyes, dragging a long nail across his skin.
Wang Chun Lo sighed to himself.
“The soul of a scribe,” Mai Fung Tan began, searching the lines in Homer’s hand. “Ah . . . there is a great legacy. Wondrous! Oh, there has been much pain. You turned your back on your father’s wishes. Your father does not approve or understand your choices. Ah, but your mother would have, had she lived.”
Homer’s face went slack.
“You have a great love of words and a glorious future. All will know your name. As your ancestors before, you will write things that will transcend space and generations. I see something else . . . something, no . . . some
one
new to you has touched your heart in a strange way. Unexpected. A young—”
Homer snatched his hand away, startling the old woman.
“I . . . I . . . think I’ll go check on Dido,” he said, standing. “He’s probably hungry. Or . . . something.” He left the tent, throwing the flap back so hard that it caught on itself and remained open, showing the moonlit desert illuminated beyond.
Mai Fung Tan watched Homer leave, her eyes narrowing into slits. Then she smiled, showing teeth even more sharply pointed than her son’s.
She looked smugly at Wang Chun Lo. “I don’t need any practice!”
“Honored mother,” said Wang Chun Lo, with a slight roll of his eyes. “You are correct as usual. But your wonders are simpler, a private matter outside the main pavilion, between you and your customers. I speak only of the others. Forgive me.”
He gazed out at the crowd, silent for a few moments, as a smile slowly creased the corners of his mouth.
“With new guests and new stories come new thoughts and new ideas,” he said at length. “Friends,” his voice rising slightly, “we have a fresh audience right here in our midst. Let us practice tonight with an actual show! Costumes, wizardry, lights, and magic! Spare nothing! You have only moments to prepare—be off!”
Wang Chun Lo’s Caravan of Wonders
8:43 p.m.
The entire troupe cleared the tent in a frenzy of colors, shouts, clangs, cheers, and clashes. The next minute, the tangerine tent was almost empty except for Pandy, Alcie, Iole, and Wang Chun Lo. His mother had disappeared, seemingly in a puff of smoke. Servants began pushing tables, cushions, and rugs back against the fabric walls, clearing a large empty circle in the center.
“What’s happening? Where did everyone go?” Pandy asked, her curiosity bubbling.
Wang Chun Lo looked at the servants, who nodded in unison, then they too disappeared as Wang Chun Lo walked slowly toward the center of the tangerine tent. Several more oil lamps had been lit but the light didn’t shine out in all directions. Instead, their beams focused on a specific area of the tent. A few shone their light directly into the center, making that area almost as bright as day.
Wang Chun Lo spread his arms wide as he glided noiselessly, his orange robe blending with the tangerine, melon, and apricot cushions and the fabric walls until he appeared to be nothing more than a long, black braided queue floating through space. Reaching the center, he turned back toward Homer and the girls. Suddenly, they could focus only on his eyes, reflecting the strong beams of red light from the lamps. With a jangle of the coin ribbons in his hands, he began to speak, his voice and manner now those of a great storyteller.
“Honored guests, elders, and young ones. Highborn and slave. All are welcome, and tonight all are one. For tonight, there are no boundaries between thought and action, light and shadow, real and unreal. Tonight, you shall each share the experience of delight and amazement.
“My friends, there are places in this world where the sun refuses to shine, strange rituals are commonplace, up is down, and in is out. We shall take you there, the places not shown on any map . . . rarely seen by human eyes. For the next few moments we shall remove you from the dreary day-to-day existence of your modern lives with its ease and comforts . . .”
Pandy, Alcie, and Iole looked sideways at each other.
“. . . and you shall see a woman fly, grown men no larger than newborn babes, and a man of the north so fierce he destroyed his country’s foes with a single blow. All this I promise you—and more! You will be shocked! Amazed! But remember: there is absolutely nothing to fear. Prepare yourself, my friends, for it all begins . . .
now!
”
He shook his coin ribbons violently. Then, with a clap of his hands, the oil lamps went out and the tent was plunged into complete darkness.
“Apples,” whispered Alcie.
“Why am I suddenly frightened?” asked Iole.
“I think it’s wonderful,” said Pandy. She struggled to remain alert, looking for any clues as to something that might help her; but she knew she was quickly falling under the spell of the caravan.
Two oil lamps seemed to flicker on by themselves, their beams illuminating the center of the tent where Usumacinta now stood dressed in one of her feathered robes. Singing beautifully and turning slowly in a circle, her song told the story of a Mayan princess, a girl born so lovely that the Feathered Serpent Quetzalcoatl, Mayan God of the Morning Star, fell in love with her and sent parrots and hummingbirds to fetch her to him. After each sentence, Usumacinta would pause and one of her bright green birds would fly down through an opening at the top of the tent, landing at her feet. Soon there were ten birds at her feet, each one taking its place in one of two small pyramids: three birds on the bottom, two on top. As Usumacinta finished, a hundred hummingbirds flew into the tent, alighting on her arms and in her hair. Singing the last notes, telling how the princess was saddened to leave her village but joyous about her new life with Quetzalcoatl, Usumacinta stepped lightly onto the two parrot pyramids and all the birds together lifted her off the ground and into the air. She held the final note, clear as the ringing of a wind chime, as she flew through the opening and out into the night.
Pandy, Alcie, and Iole were stunned.
“I think that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Pandy finally.
“Hades didn’t send birds when he wanted Persephone to be his wife. He just pulled her onto his black chariot while she was walking in a field one day,” said Alcie.
“No imagination,” said Iole.
They began clapping wildly.
From out of the darkness came the voice of Wang Chun Lo.
“Now we take you east to India. To the land of Buddha, Vishnu, and Kali. To the land of Krishna, Shakti, and Brahma. To the land of . . .”
Suddenly, outside the tent there was a sharp yell, a loud squawk, a dull thud, and a moan.
“. . . to the land of . . .”
“They dropped me . . . again!” Usumacinta’s voice rose outside.
“We keep telling you, you’re eating too much!” came another voice.
“I am not, you dried-up lizard,” Usumacinta said.
“. . .
to the land of
. . . ,” Wang Chun Lo continued.
“If they drop me once more during a real show, we’re all eating parrot for dinner!” Usumacinta yelled.
“Quiet!” Wang Chun Lo cried in a hoarse whisper. “You have finished! Let the others perform.”
Pandy, Alcie, and Iole heard a great rustling of feathers and a loud
harrumph
ing sound as Usumacinta herded her birds back to her tent.
“Um . . . ,” Wang Chun Lo went on. “Oh yes—to the land of many-armed Shiva, the destroyer, and Ganesha, he of the elephant head. Come with us to India!”
Into the pool of light tumbled the three tiny men. Swiftly, to the odd sounds of unseen instruments, they writhed, jiggled, and bent their bodies into the shapes of the Indian elephant god, Ganesha, then into the form of Buddha, with his legendary helmet of snails, or Hanuman, the monkey god, and other exotic Indian deities. Sometimes they simply twisted themselves into knots and then, in a flash, they unraveled. At the very end of their act, as the lamps in front of them were extinguished, they stood one upon the other in silhouette and portrayed the god Shiva, the destroyer of the world in Indian culture, with his four arms. Just as they were wiggling their arms up and down to represent Shiva’s ferocity, one arm hit another arm, which hit another arm, which hit someone’s head, which sent the trio collapsing to the floor in a way that left everyone who was watching in hysterics. In silhouette, the three men tried to stand again, and again only to trip over a leg here or an arm there. Finally they began pummeling each other, cursing in small high voices until the dark outlines of three servants grabbed hold of each of the Hindi men and carted them, like infants, out of the tent.
And so it went. Every act, every performance began beautifully and ended with something going wrong in such a way that caused Pandy, Alcie, and Iole to laugh so hard they began to hurt with each breath.
Mehlika, the Hittite woman wearing the turquoise top and yellow pants, entered the tent, this time also wearing a full black wig. She was a human torch who could throw flames with her breath; but more than that, she painted whole pictures in the air with nothing but fire. For several minutes she created seascapes complete with ships, animals grazing in pastures, chariot races, trees in the wind. Then she tried to paint women dancing in a circle and inadvertently lit her head on fire. Two servants standing in the shadows were obviously prepared and immediately doused her with water from wooden buckets. Screeching, she dashed outside and Pandy heard her grumbling to someone nearby that she was running out of horsetail hair for her wigs.