The carnival is my home, and I would do anything for my fellow travelers, the only family I have had these many years. So I made to protest when Lucas presented me with a new caravan. Lucas insisted I accept until it would have been churlish to refuse, and I must say it is quite splendid. The interior is paneled in golden oak, with enough built-in shelves, drawers, and assorted nooks and crannies to keep all of my medicinal stock in trade in perfect order. I admit that my old wagon was showing signs of wear, but it would have lasted many a long year yet. In fact, I had no problem selling it to a gypsy drummer… received a good price for it too. Lucas continues to look for ways to reward me, but I fear his continuing favor may incite my fellow carnies to fits of jealousy. As it is, some look at me a bit strangely since the incident, even though I am careful to say that Mr. Stone exaggerates his gratitude and that my part in the whole affair was hardly worth mentioning. "Professor," Lucas says, when he and Karl and I share a glass of wine of an evening. "That wagon is only a small token of my gratitude. I can never repay the debt I owe you." I continue to demur, of course. Still, when I look into Lucas's eyes, I see that he knows my modest remarks for the lies they are. I did indeed play a part, but in truth I feel I can claim little real credit. It was all just an odd chain of circumstance. Perhaps only an act of fate, after all. Thomas Caldwell was the first to name me the "Professor" because, of course, I was not always so known. My parents christened me Martin Horatio Klein. I suppose I come by my calling rightfully. My maternal grandfather was a chemist… a pharmaceutical chemist, to be precise… a compounder of powders and salves and all manner of libations designed to ensure and improve the well-being of the human race… and the occasional four-legged sufferer, if the occasion arose. As I was born the youngest of eight children, to an unaffluent family who made their living from tilling this Earthly soil, it was a blessing to all concerned when dear Granddad offered to take me under his wing at the tender age of five years. I was a bright and inquisitive child, if I do say so, into everything in Granddad's shop on the main street of our tiny southern town. I believe he began to teach me his craft to give direction to my energies, lest I experiment and perhaps concoct something harmful. To protect me from myself, as it were. The first words in which I perceived meaning were Laudanum and Sweet Spirits of Nitre, from block letters printed on brown glass bottles stoppered in cork. But, long before I could read their names, I knew those drugs and many others by their smell and taste. I could sample a tiny bit of a compounded mixture on the tip of my tongue and tell you what substances it contained and the ailment it was meant to treat. Yes, I was a quick study, as though not blood, but herbal potions flowed through my veins. When I reached my twelfth birthday, Granddad decided to take me on as a full apprentice, hoping perhaps that I would succeed him in his profession. But alas, it was not to be. In my arrogance, I felt that I had mastered the totality of Granddad's knowledge already, that further teaching from him bore no challenges. I was tired of compounding traditional remedies that sadly had little or no demonstrable curative power. I wanted to search for true ways of healing. Secretly, I longed to take to the open road, to become a journeyman and see places and things far beyond the valley of my birth. Perhaps sensing my restlessness, Granddad broached a discussion of Harvard and the medical profession. But money was always scarce, and my formal schooling had been neglected in favor of a more practical education. Therefore, despite my genius, no scholarships were forthcoming. My future was a puzzlement, and I had made no concrete plans when fate stepped in. I was alone there at the pharmacy counter on the fine day that a red man crossed the threshold of Granddad's establishment. His dusty blue shirt, the shabby top hat he wore, and his long black braids did not dim my perception of the intelligence in his dark eyes. Although Indians were not usually welcomed in our town, I followed my instincts and invited him in with all courtesy. Soon we were discussing the ways of medicine among the tribes. "What do you want, my son?" he asked me after we had conversed for a long while. "I want to be a healer," I responded without thought, for I had ever had no other ambition. His depthless gaze fixed on my face, as though trying to discern the intent behind my words. "That is good," he said at last. Though Granddad was adamantly against it, I made the decision that very afternoon to go and study with Dancing Deer, who was the medicine man of his band. And that decision I have never regretted. The native people were kind to a strange boy who came to live amongst them. I don't doubt that the favor of their medicine man was a factor in the tribe's acceptance. But in general everyone was more friendly than you might expect of a people whom most whites still branded "savages" and who had some cause to resent any man whose skin was lighter than their own. The band was small, but they did all they could to remember the old ways while still trying to appease the white man and those of their people who longed to be like him. It seemed that, at twelve years old, I was just of an age to become a man in their society. Like the other boys, I took on the trials of a vision quest, spending four days and nights alone in the wilderness with no food or water. Before then I had given little thought to matters of the spirit, being far more concerned with curing the body. But on that fourth morning a strange sight came before my eyes when a huge white bird flew down to light on a branch nearby. As clear as any voice I had ever heard, he spoke to me. "Be strong," he cawed, "and one day you will be granted your heart's desire." I then fell into a swoon, and when I came to myself and returned to the camp, Dancing Deer professed my true name to be White Crow, and thus I was known to my adopted people. Four long years passed quickly, as I lived and traveled with Dancing Deer's band. After a time, a stranger could not have told me from one of them, my hair as black as theirs and the sun having burned my fair skin brown. The lives and health of the tribe became my concern, and I tended the sick alongside Dancing Deer until I was trusted almost as much as he. Like many another young man, I took a personal interest in the ways of the body, and in this exploration I was joined by others. When our day's work was done, it was not uncommon to find a group of youngsters wrestling, swimming, gaming, or pairing off in the bushes for more private pleasures. However, I was also quite conscious of the fair sex. Then, at sixteen years, now an established man of the tribe, I was permitted the privilege of choosing a bride. Her name was Desert Flower, and a flower she was, with lips like rose petals, her breath as sweet as a June morning. Never did a more worthy maiden exist on the face of the Earth. Our mating was the bliss always hoped for and so seldom achieved, and the prospect of growing old with her beside me filled me with joy. My passion may have been medicine, but hers was horses. She rode as well as any man and tamed the wild mustangs with her gentleness. She and I would ride our favorite ponies together every evening, before retiring to our lodge for a blessed night of sharing. On that last summer evening, she rode away from me, laughing to show me the speed of her new favorite. Woman and horse, the pair flew over the plain as one and stopped to wait for me beside a cairn of rocks. I arrived in time to witness the tragedy. There, from behind the stone, a coiled rattler struck. Its foreleg pierced, and pierced again, the spotted pony reared, and they fell together. My thrown knife spitted the serpent as I jumped to the ground beside her. But, alas, she was gone, her neck broken. I saw her buried, according to time honored tribal customs. Dancing Deer himself spoke to me of other days and other loves to come, though he was also bowed with grief. But I could not hear his words then, and in less than a fortnight I was away, leaving all that was mine behind me with she who had been my wife. I wandered then, far from familiar places and the people I had grown to love. I slept little and did not remember to eat. My clothes grew tattered, my skin dirty and covered in bruises. It is a wonder that I was not eaten by some hungry beast, but nothing hunted me except a desire for the end of my own life. When the old man found me, I was near to achieving that end by neglect, but he brought me to his home on the mountain and nursed me, as tenderly as if I were a babe in arms. It was he who first told me that my hair had turned from deepest black to the stark white of snow. In time, I came back to myself, and he told me he was also a healer, one who made the rounds of those few souls who inhabited the mountains and was trusted with their sick. "What do you want," the hermit asked, when I was strong again, as Dancing Deer had asked me so long before. This time I stopped to consider. "I want to fight death, Grandfather," I said at last, with courteous speech, as I had been taught by elders of the tribe. I was surprised to find that it was true, that I still had any desire left to confide. "There are many ways to fight death," he said, and he took me into the woods. I became a student once again, learning to make potions that had true curative powers. I saw many a man and woman saved from suffering by these medicines, but still some were beyond help, and I found I was not satisfied. "Grandfather," I said one day as we harvested the foxglove which could be used to strengthen a failing heart. "Thanks to you, I know many helpful things. But nothing will cure the most serious of all states. Nothing will cheat death of his chosen victim." He sat on a boulder, thinking long and hard, until he fixed me with his pale eyes. "There may be such a remedy," he said at last. My heart began to beat faster, as though a trip-hammer lived inside my chest. "What is it, Grandfather?" I begged. "I will show you," he said, taking up a bow and a quiver of arrows. We stalked the woods silently, and, just at dusk, we saw a black-tailed doe, grazing timidly on the new-grown grass of a meadow. The hermit fit arrow to bowstring and let fly before I had time to blink, and the deer fell without a sound, the hide pierced over her heart. We approached with caution, but she was quiet. I wondered at this hunting, when I had seen the smoked venison that already hung in his shed, but his actions were not mine to question. The doe's body only quivered when we knelt beside her, but the hermit did not draw his knife to slit her throat as I expected. Rather, he grasped and pulled the arrow out, bringing a sluggish flow of dark blood. That done, he reached into his pouch and brought out a small birchbark container, drew forth the stopper, and counted two drops of the clear liquid inside onto the doe's protruding tongue. He stood then, motioning me back, and we waited. In only a moment, the deer rose with a jerk and a startled bleat, shook herself, and bounded away into the trees. Before I could blink, she was gone from our sight. My joy in this marvel was short lived, and soon my heart became heavy again. The answer I had sought for all of my life was now in my grasp but, alas, too late for my beloved Desert Flower. The healing elixir was not easy to compound, necessitating the rarest of ingredients and water from the spring which flowed only at the top of a single mountain. Three days it took us to reach that location, and another three days and much care to distill enough of the delicate liquid to fill a small vial. The hermit looked with approval on the mixture that I myself had concocted. He dipped in a finger, bringing one drop to my lips. "This much, taken in the spring, will keep you strong," he said. It tasted of the earth, rich and bittersweet on my tongue. "Two drops will heal." "But in dire necessity," I questioned, "will it always work?" He shook his head. "I have used it only a handful of times, except on myself. I have the recipe from my own grandsire, and he swore the knowledge a divine gift. More I cannot say." The secret was mine, but what use was it to me now? Packing the glass vial carefully, with thanks, I left the hermit's mountain. Having regained a measure of my zest for life, I found work in the first town I encountered and, after a year's labor, had enough money for a wagon and horses with which to resume my travels. I filled my wheeled home with distillates and compounds whose properties I trusted, determined to use what knowledge I had gained to help mankind. An acquaintance suggested that I not go it alone, but join a traveling show, the better to reach those that might have need of my medicines. Thinking it an excellent idea, I resolved to do exactly that. When first I laid eyes on Thomas Caldwell, I knew what kind of man he was - a gentleman of the old school. He accepted me graciously into his traveling carnival and always treated me with fairness. From time to time, both of us in need of companionship, we spent a pleasant evening in the back of my wagon, often so pleasant that we did not part until the dawn. As time went on, I did my poor best to console Thomas in his longing for the boy who had stolen his heart, but I could find in myself no jealousy when young Lucas finally joined the show as Thomas's companion and protégé. I also grew fond of Lucas, and I fancy he developed some small affection for me. I know that both our hearts were broken at Thomas's untimely death - far away from any help I might have offered. Still, I imagined that Thomas might smile at the thought of me keeping watch over the young man he had loved so much. In time, I grew to think of Lucas, and Karl too, when he came to join us, as the closest I would ever come to having sons of my own. The traveling carnival allowed me to indulge my restless disposition, insuring an ever-changing landscape, the added benefit being that I could also exercise my true calling. The common man might think me merely another charlatan, a cheap purveyor of useless, foul-tasting potions, the "snake oil" of ill repute. But some few knew from experience that, if there was a true need, there might be bottles in my stores that held remedies brewed with the utmost care from the most potent ingredients. The special vial, I kept well hidden, its powers held in reserve. Once, a carnival child came down with fever. The local doctor diagnosed diphtheria, a tragic disease and often fatal. Her parents came to me that night and begged my intervention. The poor child was aflame and her small throat grossly swollen. I feared the physician might be correct. But with one drop of the elixir she slept the night peacefully and arose pink and healthy next morning. I used it once again when a flyer fell from the trapeze heights. I judged two drops were required to mend him, and all were amazed that he arose with no lasting harm. Now and again, I was plagued by thoughts that I should not keep this miraculous potion to myself, but instead share it with the world. Still, I hesitated. I know not how much of the secret depends on science alone, and how much on mystery. Might others discover that, without the fasting and recitation of prayers taught to me by the hermit, my mentor, the elixir was of no more use than spring water? Then came the summer when the great tent fell. Its main support beam had failed, weakened, perhaps, by some vermin infestation, perhaps by age alone. At any rate, the collapse was quite dramatic, as the two remaining supports could not keep the canvas from sagging onto the heads of the audience, and the night's ticket prices had to be refunded. Enquiries proved that a replacement mast might be ordered, but the crafting thereof would take some months, and the costs would be considerable. Lucas and Karl hatched an idea. According to their plan, a good portion of the camp made its way into the nearby foothills, where tall, straight trees were to be found. Rather than a long wait, a trunk of appropriate size might be trimmed and felled and take up its intended place immediately. André, the strong man, volunteered to help with the chopping, and Henry, a fine strong fellow himself, though short of stature, to be one of those who climbed to top the tree. Karl, against Lucas' better judgment, would be the other. I smoked my pipe that day, comfortably leaning against a glacier-smoothed boulder, occasionally glancing skyward to discern the progress of the two men at their task. Silhouetted perhaps forty feet in the air, hanging from rope harnesses as they stripped the mighty tree of her branches, they were quite a picture. Mountain peaks painted the far distance, hazy in the afternoon light. Clouds sailed slowly in the blue, and flocks of birds called from the sky. The camp youngsters gathered the large and small branches as they fell, complaining of the sticky sap that soon coated careless hands and besmirched clothing. A bonfire was planned for the evening, to celebrate the completion of our new tent pole - not purchased at great expense and lost time from manufacturers in the east, but expertly harvested and crafted by members of our own company. Spirits were high. Lucas's eyes danced as he regarded Karl's movements above, and their young Tommy helped haul away the branches. Lucas put on a brave, proud front, and perhaps I was the only one to catch the shadow of worry fleeting across his brow. Karl was not a boy any longer… still strong, but a man nearing forty. I had just bent to tap out my pipe when I heard it, the sudden parting snap of a tortured rope. Like a pistol shot, the sound hung in the high, thin air, and all breaths were drawn in unison, all figures stood motionless. And then, like doomed Icarus in his flight, he fell. Before the swiftly flailing body could strike the ground, a shriek rang out in Lucas's voice… "Karl!" Like everyone else, I moved toward the fallen man. Bushes caught at my clothing, and rocks threw themselves into my path, and somehow I was among the last to arrive. Tommy knelt first beside Karl, within arm's reach but not daring that fateful touch. Lucas came next, leaping wildly over broken branches, only to halt at Karl's side, silenced by his beloved friend's utter stillness and the crimson streams flowing from his mouth, ears, and nostrils… slowly spreading in a pool under his copper curls. Deafened by my own heartbeat, I stood dumb as Lucas reached to straighten the wrongly bent arm and leg until the body lay in seeming repose, mouth relaxed, bright lashes feathered over pale, paler, palest skin. The similarity to my own memory of loss was too much to bear, and for a moment I was frozen, as though time had stopped and then reversed its orderly flow. Lucas spoke, his voice a whisper in the quiet… "No… please… no." Not a call of bird or beast broke through the shocked silence. I had seen all there was to see, and, as what passed for the physician of our little company, I knew what it meant. Karl had passed beyond all earthly help. But… had he? Before Lucas could lift his eyes to mine, before I could see the despair or vain hope I imagined would be there in them, I turned my back and ran. At my caravan, I threw open the trunk, carelessly tossing aside bottles and jars until, at the very bottom, I found the box and the deerskin pouch that sheltered the crystal vial, the treasure which I sought. Only a few drops of clear, palest-green liquid remained. Were they enough? Or would their virtue be wasted on a dead man? I did not know, but I knew I had to try. Returning, I pushed through the murmuring crowd to where Karl's body lay. Lucas had lifted the gore-smeared head to cradle in his lap, and he stroked the graying cheeks. Shock was written plain on Lucas's face, and I knew he himself would soon need my restorative care… but… perhaps not, if only…. If only. Kneeling, I slipped the stopper from the vial, holding it clenched safe in my fist. I touched Lucas's hand, cautioning him to hold very still. He pierced me with a glance of mingled pain and hope that I could not bear for long. With two fingers, I parted the cooling lips and tilted in the precious liquid. Never in all my life had I taken more than one drop or dispensed more than two. One by one, I counted them… three… four… five…. The slow count ended at seven. The vial was empty. I sat back then, all my energy flown. My eyes were only for the fallen man, his face, his body, and the sluggish trails of blood that suddenly ceased their flow as his chest rose once in a gasp of release. Karl coughed then, painfully, and lifted a hand to his face. Lucas cried out again, "Karl!" and his first tears began to flow… tears now of relief and thanksgiving. Karl's broken leg and arm, splinted by me with the unnecessary assistance of a quack brought in from town, mended in record time. He was up and about on crutches before fall made its colorful appearance. By then we were far away from those mountains, the sturdy trimmed tree trunk well seasoned and accustomed to its new incarnation as center support for our main tent. It was many a day before Lucas would leave Karl's side. Now, at last, he allows him the freedom to walk without help - at least around camp. And I have the unexpected pleasure of my new home. Lucas must have ordered it built soon after the accident, because it arrived only a few weeks later. Mounted on sturdy modern wheels, it travels well, which will be helpful to me at this next cold season. While everyone else rests in the southern warmth of the carnival's wintering grounds, I must undertake a pilgrimage. In the spring, it will be time for my own yearly drop of the potion. After so long a time, I dread to think of my life without that strengthening dose. So, I must hope that I can once again successfully locate the sacred spring and the rare herbs which have always flourished around it. If there be enough, then perhaps this time I will concoct a double batch of the elixir. One never knows when one might again have need of a miracle.
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