Dorotea is reliving the day of the Circus. She was alone, just before dusk. She knew trouble was lurking and going home was not and option. She thought about explaining every thing the Nann Moran, the grandmother who ran the farm, but asking for help was never something she could bring herself to do. She had all her keepsakes, dollars, gold and jewelry she acquired working. She could see H.T. Barstowe’s motor carriage driving back and forth at the front of the farm.
She decided to go the other way. Into the fields of maize, at the edge of the farm was a dumping ground for old stoves. She ducked bellow the rusted metal and barbed wire. Seeing a large tanker from a long scrapped train she rushes to find a way in. Pushing open a hatch on a steam boiler left to deteriorate in the dump. Inside was dusty and dry. She decided to hide, but it was so dark. She left the hatch partially open to catch rays of the setting run. After a while the sky became a deep purple sparkled with stars. She felt so hopeless. Betrayed by her Mother. She thought maybe her sisters could help her but they were so self indulgent, they would never miss a night of drinking to help her.
As she tried think clearly tears and despair stopped any clear thoughts. She thought of places she could go. New York City had no direct trains, California is a straight shot on one line but she felt like the “Wild West” was just as scary as the Circus. She thought of Texas big cities like Houston, Galveston, San Antonio, Amarillo. Everything seemed so foreign. Like trying to survive in Alaska alone. She knew she would need food and a place to live but she also felt like any one who notices her could take her away to a fate worse than the Circus. She can hear the train in the distance, but closer she can hear dogs, the Barstowe hunting dogs!
She tries to close the hatch but its bent and opens back with a screeching sound of rusted hinges. She hears men’s voices, banging on metal drums, clattering chains, and heavy footsteps. The dogs scrambling around ahead of the men. At the hatch sniffing and the muzzle of a giant black hound, when it barks its like thunder inside the the boiler. She feels around for something like a wrench or piece of metal to brain this dog who is trying to open the heavy metal hatch and scramble inside to bite her.
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Dorotea feels a nasty flake of rusted iron jam under her fingernail. She sucks the wound but there is no time, searching again she puts her hand on something strange that is moving and before she can recoil, it stings her. A large black scorpion crawls onto her bare leg bellow her skirt. Panicking she swats at it, when suddenly the hatch is opened by an angry Clown with a lantern. All is lost. At least she thinks the scorpion venom will kill her before they can drag her back to the Circus for some unknown life of drudgery and abuse. Dragged out she sees the evil smile of H.T. Barstowe then the world goes black.
Waking she is in a Gypsy Wagon. Burgundy curtains, Indian blankets, lamps of glass beads and a stained glass skylight are all so mesmerizing to her, she forgets to be afraid. She looks around an sees dozens of victorian lithographs in lockets and ornate frames of silver and gold rococo floral motifs. She is startled by a voice behind her head, “Those were traded by gamblers with no money, who bring their family heirlooms to trade for one more hand of cards. I get first pick before the Carnies.”
Turning around to see she is on a loft apartment, bellow there is a table covered in fine candelabras, pearls, glass roses and crystal glasses. Esma, the gypsy is the Circus fortune teller. She reads Tarot cards, she asks “Would you like me to read your horoscope in the cards?” Dorotea climbs down and sits across from her. “When is your birthday?” Dorotea says, “June 21st.” The Gypsy Woman relies, “Ah, a Gemini, almost born on the Solstice. I bet you hold many secrets.”
Esma, the gypsy woman shuffles her Tarot deck, placing an ominous spread. Cards with Fiery Angels, Devils, A Burning Tower, The Figure of Death, Executions and Torture lay before her. Before the Gypsy Medium can speak banging at the door, it’s seized open by hostile Clowns.
Kicking the cards from the table Dorotea focuses on cards that feel familiar from her dreams A Hanged Man, A Man Impaled by 10 swords, A Hermit all staged from corpses in post mortem lithographs taken my the Lion Tamer. Dorotea is dragged out into the night. The Medium looks at a post mortem photograph of her Daughter, tears fall.