Malcolm Devlin and the Shadow of a Hero

By Michael Ferrari and Jeffrey Johnson

Malcolm Devlin is the lonely and superstitious son of a forgotten circus daredevil.  After a run-in with some bullying locals in a remote northwoods town, Malcolm makes a desperate, magic wish which brings the legendary movie hero Rex Carson to life right off the silver screen!

But real life isn't quite like the movies. When Mal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sleeping Giant Ltd.
• Release date: Jun 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996335621

Michael Ferrari

Michael Ferrari is the author of the award-winning novel BORN TO FLY. He has been a welder, a lipstick machine operator, an aviation cameraman, a film editor, and a teacher. He lives and writes in Ohio.

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This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Michael Ferrari

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by

Sleeping Giant Ltd.

Visit the author on the Web!

www.michaeljferrari.com

Illustrations by Jeffrey Johnson

Romeo’s Tune Words and Music by Steve Forbert ©1979 COLGEMS-EMI MUSIC INC.

and ROLLING TIDE MUSIC

All Rights Controlled and Administered by

COLGEMS-EMI MUSIC INC.

All Rights Reserved International

Copyright Secured Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

ISBN 978-0-9963356-3-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-9963356-0-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-0-9963356-1-4 (kindle)

ISBN 978-0-9963356-2-1 (ePub)

For Anthony

8 YEARS AGO

Malcolm Devlin was only six years old when he learned the truth about heroes. They didn’t leap tall buildings at a single bound! like Superman.  They didn’t shoot webs any size and catch thieves just like flies! like Spiderman.  Heroes were people – real people who did things no one else wanted to do because it was too impossible, too dangerous, or let’s face it, too crazy.  But the real truth about heroes, the thing they never tell you in comic books and video games and movies is … heroes die.

On the night Malcolm learned the truth about heroes the Zingale Brothers Circus had just finished their 31st and most profitable season yet.  The legend went that their circus was born after the brothers won a monkey and a Bengal tiger in a high-stakes poker game.  Thirty-one years later, after ten and a half months of touring everywhere from Tallahassee to Kalamazoo, the circus had landed in their final stop outside of a remote town called Blackwater, Louisiana. 

The night seemed darker than usual, perhaps because of the expanse of the open field.  The tree line was far off, making it impossible to tell where the black sky ended and the horizon began. It had been a brutally dry summer, unusual for the swamps and bayous of Blackwater.  The road into the field was dusty and the grass had crackled and snapped under the townspeople’s footsteps.  It was now near midnight, and the people of Blackwater had all gone home. 

But the field was alive. 

Through the darkness, glimpses of the red and yellow canvas tents could be seen by the flicker of campfires and lamplight.  Brightly painted trailers hyping Fearless Fire-Eaters! and Astounding Acrobats! littered the abandoned midway.  The gruff laughter of the roustabouts and workmen sitting around jackpotting about the old days rose through the night air, while gentle purrs and mumbled growls of wild caged animals, fast asleep from exhaustion and a belly full of fresh steak, gave an eerie sense of calm all around, as if one were asleep in a dragon’s lair. 

Outside a black trailer labeled Hugo the Great, an old magician stood pulling white doves from a scarf, doing his best to hold the attention of the dozen or so sleepy circus kids circled about him. All of their parents were either performers or part of the circus crew.  Hugo’s job was to keep the kids entertained while their parents finished the last of their work for the night.  Business had been so good, the Zingales had added an extra afternoon performance that day, which meant the crew had been up and working non-stop since 5 AM.

At the dark edge of the main tent, the old canvassman sat down to rest for a minute.  All the ropes were checked and the poles secured.  He’d spent his whole life working under the big top, and after the blistering heat of this summer, he had decided this season would be his last.  He sat down by the campfire and shut his eyes, just for a minute, he told himself.  He was asleep almost immediately, so he didn’t feel it when he crossed his legs and bumped the log in the fire.  He never saw the stray nugget of hot ash that rolled into the dry crackling grass… and started to burn. 

At the other end of the midway, a converted delivery van sat parked at a cockeyed angle next to a customized motorcycle.  This was Malcolm Devlin’s traveling home.  The ghost white van had once been an ice-cream truck, but except for the ice cream cone ornament on the roof of the cab, you could barely tell.  The side awning had been riveted closed and painted like a billboard, and the two freezers inside had been turned into a table and workbench stuffed with a mechanic’s treasure trove of tools underneath.  Painted on the side was the name DAREDEVIL DEVLIN in big red letters above the image of a man in a red, white, and blue jumpsuit riding his motorcycle upside-down and no-handed in a cyclodome, a spherical metal cage that was nicknamed, The Sphere of Fear.  In the center of the sphere was a beautiful woman with a dimpled smile, standing perfectly still. 

Attached onto the back of the van was a patchwork tent.  It glowed with the shadows of two figures, one large and one small, engaged in a desperate swordfight to the death. 

Unhand her, Sir Slime!  Malcolm swung at his father with his cardboard sword. 

Never!  Brock Devlin blocked his son’s cardboard sword with his own, slashing and swiping each charge with all the exaggeration of an overeager boy starring in his first school play.  Malcolm’s dad was still dressed in his dashing red, white, and blue leather daredevil costume, twirling the edge of his imagined mustache like an old-time silent movie villain.  The princess is mine!

Behind Brock, trapped in a makeshift prison tower made from a stack of old motorcycle tires was a small baby ferret wearing a pink doll’s bonnet.  The Princess was their pet, Fred, a gift Brock had given Malcolm for his birthday six weeks ago.  The baby ferret had stowed away in their van after a blown transmission resulted in an impromptu two-night stay in the Blue Ridge Forest in Tennessee. 

Fred looked around and chirped and chattered like a squirrel.

Don’t worry Fred-- I mean, ‘Princess’.  I’ll save you!  Malcolm charged his dad with his sword.

Not if Sir Slime has anything to say about it, Brock tried his best to counter his son’s flurry of sword thrusts. 

Malcolm loved their time together.  Life in the circus was spent mostly traveling, making camp, and before you knew it, breaking camp again.  When they got to where they were going, his father spent most of his time perfecting old stunts and trying to come up with new ones.  But now at last, the season was finished.  They would be taking the winter off and spending it with some friends of Brock’s in Texas. 

Because his father’s job was dangerous, people assumed Brock was someone who was reckless and took unnecessary risks, but the thing Malcolm liked most about his dad was the way he made him feel — safe.  Malcolm felt safe with his mother too, but it was different.  With his mom, it was more a feeling of warmth and comfort, like when he had a stomachache or growing pains and his mom could soothe him and make him feel better.  With his dad it was like being surrounded by a force field, protected and guarded twenty-four hours a day.  Every once in a while, if Brock was around, Malcolm might somersault off the back of the van into a pile of hay, or try to ride his bike no-handed, or touch the snake lady’s boa constrictor, or even go to sleep in their tent without a lamp or flashlight as a nightlight.    He knew nothing bad could happen when his dad was around.  It was an indescribable feeling of security.  It was love.

Suddenly the tent flap threw open and Brock and Malcolm froze.  A young woman in a nightgown stood there holding a toothbrush.

Friend or foe? Brock demanded.

Carla Devlin grabbed a nearby feather pillow and socked her husband Brock in the face with it.  Foe!  Her dark eyes and dimpled smile were clearly the inspiration for the woman painted on the side of the van.  But Malcolm always thought the picture didn’t quite capture the sparkle that her eyes had when she watched Brock spinning around her on his motorcycle in the cyclodome.  Malcolm didn’t know how his mom and dad did it; climbing into that metal cage every night, racing around at blinding speeds, defying gravity, knowing that one wrong move could prove deadly for either one or both of them.  His father had been hoping Malcolm would show an interest in riding a motorcycle himself now that he’d mastered riding a bike.  Brock had even bought his son a little mini-bike and customized it with a metal bar for riding it in a handstand, the same way he himself did.  But it seemed Malcolm still preferred to spend his time daydreaming or looking at comic books while watching his father work on his act.  When his mother chased him off to go run and play with the other circus kids, Malcolm usually snuck off to the movies instead.

Malcolm grabbed another pillow and he and his mom ganged up on Brock, knocking down the tower of rubber tires and collapsing in a cloud of feathers and laughter. 

Fred?  Fred?  Malcolm looked around.  The cloud of feathers had settled, but Fred was nowhere to be found.  Fred, are you okay?

Malcolm and his parents dug through the pile. 

Acchhhhnzznnnt It was Fred the ferret, emerging from under a pile of goose feathers.  He sneezed again, this time so hard his doll bonnet flew off. 

I suppose the bonnet wasn’t very dignified, Carla said.  And pink’s definitely not your color.

Fred chirped in agreement. 

Brock.  Brock!  The tent flap threw open again.  It was the old magician, Hugo the Great, looking scared and out-of-breath.  The main tent’s caught fire!

Brock Devlin leapt to his feet and out the tent door. 

Wait! Carla called, but Brock was already out of earshot.  Carla threw on her robe, Hugo grabbed Malcolm, and they raced after Daredevil Devlin. 

The night was no longer dark.  In the center of the field, the big top was ablaze.  In a few short minutes the dried grass had caught fire like a field of matchsticks.  A ragged line of circus performers and workmen furiously passed buckets of water hand to hand, but it was like splashing drops of rain into an erupting volcano.  Surrounding the main tent, the crew fought to anchor the center-pole with jumper ropes.  But the support lines were burning.

The main pole's going to collapse! the boss canvassman called out.

We can’t hold it! the yard boss echoed. 

Horsey?  My horsey?  A little raven-haired girl, no more than 4 years old, wormed her way through the crowd.  It was Trina, the daughter of Selina, Mistress of the trapeze. Dressed only in a sparkled nightshirt, Trina’s little hands clutched the worn leather of her pet miniature horse’s reins.  In all the chaos, her frightened horse must have worked himself loose of his bridle and run free. 

Suddenly, Trina stopped, and listened.  It was a frightened whinny, coming from inside the tent.  She dropped the bridle and crawled under the canvas wall of the blazing big top. 

Trina?  Trina!  A raven-haired woman emerged, fighting her way through the crowd.  Has no one seen my Trina? It was Selina, still wearing her sequined trapeze outfit under a cape.  Her mascara-streaked eyes darted everywhere.  Then she spotted it: the horse’s bridle, abandoned in the dirt outside the tent.  Trina!

From the opposite side of the big top, Brock heard the scream.  He raced toward the source of the anguished cry. 

He arrived as several workmen fought to hold Selina back from the tent.

Brock!  My Trina.  She is inside!

Brock had known Selina since he first joined the Zingale Brothers Circus fifteen years before.  He was just a hired hand then, a roustabout looking for work and maybe a little adventure.  It was Selina’s father, a world famous Hungarian tightrope walker, who had taught Brock how to ride a motorcycle in the cyclodome.

She can’t go in there, Brock, one of the workmen warned.  The top’s about to fall!

Brock Devlin didn’t argue, didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t pause to consider other options.  In fact he didn’t say a word.  He just nodded, which told Selina everything she needed to hear.  In a flash he had disappeared into the burning tent, just as Carla, Hugo, and Malcolm arrived.

Brock! Carla called.  But she was too late. 

The inside of the tent was like a blast furnace.  Brock had worked the furnace at a steel mill one summer when he was eighteen.  Only this time he was inside it.  The heat was so oppressive it weighed