A Lesson for the Cyclops

Chapter 3

The oddities nattered outside of Marco’s tent, each trying to crane past the others to peer inside. There was much speculation about from whence the injured man had come, and why he was on the run.

“Is he all right?” the Cyclops said to Pahula, the Tattooed Lady.

Pahula’s parents had come overseas from Kardán, and Pahula still had a thick Kardish accent when she spoke.

“Marcoo has removed the arrow from the crazy man. Now he is—how you say it?—dressing the injury.” The chubby woman shuddered with glee, sending her illustrations dancing and fluttering. “You should see this man without his shirt. Ayah! What a body!”

The Cyclops wouldn’t mind seeing it as Pahula suggested, but she was cautious about letting others know of her desires. Once, when she had worked at a freak show in Dhallabi, the owner had learned of her passion for collecting teacups. Whenever he felt she had not performed to his satisfaction, he would smash one. She had learned the hard way that people could use what they know about you to hurt you.

“Where do you think he’s from?” asked one of the midget twins.

“The Cyclops has his bag,” said the other twin. “What’s in the bag, Cyclops?”

The request had caught her off-guard. She looked at the bag, then back at the oddities.

“Goo on,” Pahula urged in a conspiratorial whisper, “just a peek.”

The Cyclops hesitated for a moment, and then unwound the ties that sealed the injured man’s bag. She had started to open it when Marco emerged from his tent.

“All right, all right,” he said. “The excitement is over; ye can go on back to your tents. I’ve removed the arrow and he’s resting comfortably. There’s nothing else ye can do now. Go back to your tents and get your beauty sl—” His gaze fell upon the Cyclops.

“Go get some rest,” he said in a softer voice, and then returned to his tent.

The oddities cursed and complained, but at length, they relented and dispersed into the night.

The Cyclops remained, blinking in confusion.

For just a moment, before Marco had sent everybody away, she had glanced into the injured man’s bag. She had only caught a glimpse, but she was certain she hadn’t imagined it.

The bag was empty. Really, really empty. From the single glance, it seemed as if there was a cavernous space contained within that simple burlap sack.

The Cyclops looked at the bag again. It seemed plain enough, the surface completely unremarkable save for a row of intricate chartreuse stitching.

She glanced around to make sure she was alone, and then opened the bag once more.

Inside was vast. Vast and empty. By all rights, the bag should have had no weight to it at all, yet it felt about as heavy as a small melon. Left to itself, the bag tended to fill out toward the bottom, as though it were partially full, but the Cyclops was able to press the surface completely flat if she wanted, and could fold it into a small space roughly the dimensions of a deck of playing card. When she unfolded it, however, the back once more returned to its half-full shape.

The Cyclops looked at the tent in which the wounded man slept. Just who was  he?