The Book of Speculation: A Novel

The boy was transfixed. He inched from behind his tree.

“From the heart of the Carpathians,” Peabody shouted and lifted his arms to the sky, “shrouded in the depths of Slavic mysticism, raised by wolves and schooled in the ancient arts of fortune-telling, The Madame Ryzhkova.” The crowd murmured as a stooped woman wrapped in a broadloom’s worth of silk emerged from a curved-top wagon and extended a twisted hand.

Peabody’s voice resonated with the wild part of the boy, crooning and soothing. He inched toward the spectators, toward the wagons, snaking between bodies until he found a spot behind a wheel to best view the white-haired man with the voice like a river. He crouched, balanced on the tips of his toes, listening, timing each breath to the man’s.

“Once in a lifetime, ladies and gentlemen. When else will you see a man lift a grown horse using one arm alone? When else, I ask, will you next encounter a girl who can tie herself into a proper sailor’s knot or a seer who will tell you what the Lord himself has destined for you? Never, fine ladies and gentlemen!” With a flurry of movement, the performers hopped back into their carts and wagons, rolled down thick canvas coverings, and pulled shut the doors. Peabody remained, pacing slowly, running a hand over his buttons. “Noon and dusk, ladies and gentlemen. Threepence a look and we’ll happily accept Spanish notes. Noon and dusk!”

The crowd dispersed, returning to carting, washing, marketing, and the ins and outs of Catspawian life. The boy held his position at the cart. Peabody’s sharp blue eyes turned to him.

“Boy,” the voice intoned.

The boy fell backward and a whuff of breath left him. His body refused to heed the command to run.

“That is quite a fine trick you have,” Peabody continued. “The vanishing, the popping in and out. What do you call it? Ephemeral, ephemerae, perhaps? We’ll think of a word or mayhap invent one.”

The boy did not understand the sounds tumbling from the man. Boy felt familiar, but the rest was a jumble of beautiful noise. He wanted to feel the material that wrapped around the man’s stomach.

The man approached. “And what do we have here? You are a boy, yes? Yet you seem to be comprised of muck and sticks. Curious creature.” He made a clucking sound. “What say you?” Peabody dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder. It had been months since the boy had encountered a person. Unused to touch, he shuddered under the weight and, doing what fear and instinct commanded, pissed himself.

“Damnation!” Peabody hopped back. “We’ll need to rid you of that habit.”

The boy blinked. A rasping sound escaped his lips.

Peabody’s face softened, a twitch of his cheek betraying a smile. “Do not worry yourself, lad; we’ll get along famously. In fact, I am relying upon it.” He wrapped a hand around the boy’s arm and pulled him to standing. “Come. Let’s show you about.”

Afraid but fascinated, the boy followed.

Peabody led him to the green and gold wagon where a neatly hinged door opened onto a well-appointed room with a desk, piles of books, a brass lantern, and all the makings of a comfortable home for a traveling man. The boy set foot inside.

Peabody looked him over. “You’re dark enough to pass as a Mussulman or Turk. Here, chin up.” He bent down, hooking a finger under the boy’s jaw for a better view of him. The boy flinched. “No, you’re too wild for that.” Peabody sat heavily on a small three-legged chair. The boy wondered that it didn’t break under the man’s weight.

He watched the man think. The man’s fingers were clean, nails trimmed. Different from the boy’s. Though his size was frightening, there was gentleness to him, the crinkles around his eyes. The boy scurried close to the desk where the man sat, listening to his rumbling.

“We haven’t done India before. India,” Peabody said to himself. “Yes, an Indian savage, I think.” He chuckled. “My new Wild Boy.” He reached down as if to pat the boy’s head, but paused. “Would you like to be a savage?” The boy did not respond. Peabody’s brows lifted. “Can’t you speak?”

The boy pressed his back to the wall. His skin felt itchy and tight. He stared at the intricate ties on the man’s shoes and stretched his toes against the floor.

“No matter, lad. Yours will not be a speaking role.” The corner of his mouth twisted. “More a disappearing act.”

The boy reached to touch the man’s shoes.

“Like those, do you?”

The boy pulled away.