Worth a Thousand Words

It took a few minutes for Roberts’ eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the tent. Stale hay, sweat and burning kerosene were the smells that assaulted him as he tried to catch his breath. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamps sent undulating shadows along the canvas walls. Roberts was a grown man used to scenes from the grislier side of life but he felt his chest tighten as he rounded a corner and got his first glimpse of the monstrosities housed in this freak show. Each exhibit had its own booth; a malformed human fetus suspended in a jar of liquid it’s extra appendages and second mouth grimacing through the glass, a stuff two headed lamb set on runners like a child’s grotesque rocking horse, the mummified corpse of a half monkey/half fish labeled as a merman made up the non-living section. A booth decorated like a bordello housed the fat woman. Her rolls of flesh covered decorously with sheer veils of silk. A gentleman dressed for an evening at the opera moved his cape to reveal a misshapen brother protruding out of his chest. Each exhibit presented to shock and titillate. Roberts moved along with the other patrons who had paid their six pence to gape and stare. His progress was arrested by the tattooed lady in the next booth.

Earlier tonight he had followed a woman as she left the Horn and Crown pub; a known meeting place for a spy ring. He had watched her for nearly half an hour in the pub as she ate alone. She was a strikingly handsome woman and turned away several men who approached with a simple shake of her head. Then she was joined briefly by a known enemy informant. Their conversation had been brief and she left shortly after. 

Roberts could not be sure this was the same lady. She wore a mask that covered her upper face and cast her eyes in shadow. The only thing that gave him pause was her full blush lips. They were the color of rose pedals either by a tattooist’s hand or a makeup artist.  Lips he thought he recognized. Her dress had been modest at the pub now she wore little but a flowered strapless bra and a short grass skirt that road low on her hips.

A lacy pattern circled her neck like a delicate collar and an etched chain sported a pale pink cameo that lay in the center of her chest. An eagle held a bundle of wheat in its beak, its wings spread across the top of each breast its clawed feet grasping sword and shield. She raised arms above her head crossing her wrists; hips undulating slowly as she turned for a view of her back. The dance was evocative and held the patrons hypnotized. A peacock with his tail partially fanned graced her right hip, a country home complete with street sign covered her right shoulder blade. A long boat rescue in shark infested waters played out across her lower back. Angels and demons, butterflies and snakes, lilies and skulls covered every inch of her flesh save her hands and what was exposed of her face. As she made the turn back to her audience a flip of her wrist removed the mask to reveal a tigress. She bared gleaming white teeth and hissed at the crowd; her emerald eyes flashing.

Roberts felt the crushing weight of disappointment. This could not be his lady. There had not been any tattoos on the face of the woman in the pub. She had disappeared somewhere in the carnival and he had wasted time in this hell hole for nothing. He stepped to the next booth to be confronted with a human aberration. ‘Snake Boy’ was the title on the front of the booth; a bald man with short fins instead of hands and arms. His legs welded together by a mishap of nature. A tattooist had added patches of scales to the white flesh across the back of his head and his leg.  Roberts had seen enough.

The next week found him back in the Horn and Crown. Nursing his ale at the far end of the bar he watched the door. The moment she walk through the door the air in the pub changed. He looked over the rim of his mug and saw her shapely form slip into a booth. A brief glimpse of her profile was all he could see as she sat with her back toward him. In that quick view he knew she wore no makeup on her fair skin. Not the thick pancake that would be required to cover such a tattoo.

Roberts nodded at his confederates as he left the pub trailing the woman. Tonight they would not lose her. They would know how she passed her information. The carnival had moved to a new locality. They entered the compound and the other agents moved away from Roberts. He followed as she walked past the games of chance and skill, the soothsayers, the minstrels and puppeteers. She rounded the corner of the tent that housed the freak show. He was only steps behind her but she vanished. The agent assigned to watch this venue nodded his head at Roberts and indicated that she had entered the tent.

Six pence dropped into the coffer of the freak show hawker and Roberts entered the tent. He didn’t even pause at the other booths. Her space was empty and dark.  He convinced himself that they couldn’t be the same woman. Still he stepped into the shadows and waited. Minutes ticked by and still there was no tattooed lady. The time crawled and then she emerged wearing a cape. A candle flickered in her hand. She bent to light the foot lamps at the base of her booth.  He held his breath as she slowly pulled the ribbon tied around her neck. She shrugged her shoulders and the cape fell toward the floor. She caught it in one hand and laid it across a chair. The crowd had grown as she raised her arms above her head and began the supple movement of her hips.

Roberts started pushing his way through the crowd as he caught a glimpse of the peacock on her hip. Its tail fully unfolded now. He perused every tattoo on her back and saw the street name above the cottage; a moon now shining behind the clouds instead of the sun. The changes were subtle but now he knew he had her. She had finished her circuit and pulled off her mask to hiss in Roberts’ face. The tiger stripes were slightly smeared.

“I arrest you in the name of the Queen.” He blew the whistle he had retrieved from his pocket.

His confederates were at his side within seconds. He instructed one of the men to tie her hands so she couldn’t remove the evidence.

“Ya can’t take me gov’ner.” She started crying. “ Who’ll look after me ‘usband.”

“Sophie,” a voice wailed from the next booth.

“Fred, oh Fred.” She bawled pulling against her bonds.

Roberts felt his gore rise as he watched the pair. His lovely lady and the now squirming and writhing atrocity aptly named ‘Snake Boy’.