A Curious Beginning

He pushed me gently away. “Now, go back to the caravan and pack your bag. We will leave when this is finished.”


Naturally, I did no such thing. I circled around the exhibition tent to the front and slipped behind Mornaday, who was one of the fellows manning the entrance. He gave me a nod as I slid inside, careful to keep to the back and out of the way of the jostling crowd. The air smelled of tobacco and sweat and the noise was indescribable. I glanced idly at the fellow next to me. I recognized him as one of the riggers, the men whose job it was to secure the many ropes that supported the various tents. Their main responsibilities were upon setting and striking the campsites, and in the meantime, the professor often set them to odd jobs. This one seemed bent upon his task, and I realized with a start he was holding a rebenque. He hunched over it, as if to shield it from view, but I was close enough to watch him about his business. He removed the handle of the whip, unscrewing the end to reveal the hollow cavity inside. Carefully, he filled it with iron weights, packing the iron with bits of sacking so it made no noise. He reassembled the handle so that it looked precisely the same, only now it weighed significantly more, I realized. And with a rush of outrage, I knew exactly where that rebenque was bound. The men shouted as they laid wagers upon the outcome, and I was not surprised to find the odds were laid heavily in Colosso’s favor.

He was an utter beast of a man, and when he entered the tent, a great roar fairly shook the ground. He was stripped to the waist—the better to display his musculature—and his body had been coated with a thin film of oil. His head and face were shaven, apart from his vast mustaches, which were waxed to curl at the end, giving him the look of a diabolical ram. He smiled, showing a mouth full of brown and broken teeth, as he lifted his arms to goad the crowd to louder cheers.

Suddenly, the spectators fell silent. Stoker had entered, also stripped to the waist, to prevent his opponent from grasping his shirt. While his physique was impressive on its own merit, in comparison to Colosso’s bulk it seemed slight as thistledown. I might have prayed then, but I was too engrossed in the battle at hand. The professor himself deigned to introduce them, sitting to the side of the ring in a padded chair, Otto beside him playing a rousing tune. The ring was marked out in chalk, and the center of it was beaten earth covered in sawdust, the better to soak up the blood, I realized. For one terrible moment, my vision swam, but I kept to my feet, digging my nails into my palms for stimulation.

The professor gave his little speech, his eyes bright with malice. Colosso’s name elicited cheers from the crowd, a hectic adoration he accepted with an exaggerated bow. But when the professor said Stoker’s name, a harsh murmur descended, and I heard one or two brave souls mutter, “Murderer!”

The professor stated the rules of the fight. Each man would be equipped with a rebenque. Striking with any other weapon or with the bare hand was not permitted. Neither was kicking or any sort of grappling hold. The first man to leave the circle would forfeit the fight.

Otto’s music slid into something approaching a fanfare. “And now,” the professor intoned, “let us commence with this contest of brute strength and cunning!”

Stoker already held his rebenque, but Colosso turned to take his from the rigger I had seen. Unlike Stoker’s unadulterated weapon, the one Colosso held now carried a significant advantage, and my gaze darted wildly about the tent as I tried to determine how best to warn Stoker.

The professor gave a flourish of his hand and the two men advanced. Each now held a rebenque in his right hand, and to my horror, I saw them grip each other by the left forearm. At such enforced proximity, it would be impossible for Stoker to escape Colosso’s blows, blows unfairly multiplied by the iron in his handle. I opened my mouth to scream a warning but instantly thought better of it. In that crowd, gripped as it was by bloodlust, we would be torn to pieces for disappointing them. Instead, I stepped forward, holding my breath as the combatants raised their arms. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and stroked Chester’s tiny velvet head. But there was no comfort to be had, no matter how small.

Stoker struck first, and the sharp crack of that whip was a sound I would never forget. There was something primal about the collision of rawhide upon human flesh, and Colosso took a large step backward as the rebenque connected with his cheek.