Science, Eternal Life, and a Traveling Circus |1|

Chapter Four

Master Hughes was a very peculiar man, Alyn thought. Averse to company, averse to conversation. He had no more interest in listening than he did speaking, and when he did speak it was never anything less than harsh. When he listened, his body language spoke of only revolt or apathy. His attitude was not admirable, and his personality was yet to be determined. Even so, Alyn managed to find two qualities that she liked.

First, his hair. It told stories. It depicted restless struggles with the pillow during nights. Stress and age effected the color and thickness, and his trade left his locks with assorted defining marks like singed ends and brittle strands dusted with soot. It was fine, but there was a lot of it. The roots were graying, but the ends like new leather—and everything in between was like a painting. The shades changed from strand to strand, but it all seemed to blend together. Parts fell over his eyes and cast shadows over his brow.

His eyes. The second quality that Alyn appreciated was his eyes. They'd been traveling for around eight hours, and she did not see them often. Every now and then, she'd catch glimpses. There was something about them that drew her in. Though he seemed to avoid looking back to where she sat, to pretend that he was alone, every so often he would glance over his shoulder, paranoid that she would dig into his things or otherwise find her way to trouble. She wasn't stupid.

Though she admittedly desired to snoop, she would only do it as a last resort. She wouldn't be so interested if he would only grace her with some foundation on which to know him. He answered not one question about himself.

"So, where do you come from?" she asked, to silence.

She picked at the loose threads of her unraveling pocket. Master Hughes took brief pause to remove his fedora and swept the sweat from his brow. He ran his hardened, squarish fingers through his hair and Alyn absorbed each detail, for she seemed unable to learn about him from anything but his appearance. His hair was fine, but there was a lot of it, and each strand seemed to be of a different length. It made him appear disheveled. At the back, it reached just to the base of his neck, not quite to his shoulders. There, where it started to curl, it hid behind the stiff collar of his oversize coat.

"What's in your satchel? Did you bring all those books with you? Do you like books? Do you like picture-books? I, uh, I don't read too much myself."

Hughes replaced his hat, prodding a few strands of hair up under its brim. He shut the window. Alyn stood up and slid it open again, leaning out.

"How 'bout the chest? Whadd'you keep in there, huh?"

His whiskers rustled, his nose wrinkled, and his teeth bared. "Mind your own business!" he barked, and slammed the window shut again.

Alyn frowned. After a few minutes passed, she opened it again. She went and sat on the floor and kept on watching him, bored and reluctantly silent.

His hair fell from his hat over his creased brow and made blinds for his eyes to peek through. Only when he pulled aside these uneven curtains could she glimpse his eyes.

She would describe them as coffee stains. Not solely for their color, but for what she saw in them. Coffee stains are the result of a mishap. When hot coffee is spilled, and the spill is neglected, it stains. The stain grows cold over time.