The Iron Circus

By Matthew Robert Howe

Lewis Bokurtz is not saving the world. This isn't that kind of story.

His parents don't keep him in a cupboard under the stairs. His teacher doesn't lock him in a closet filled with broken glass. His friends have never treated him with disdain due to his expression of any unique supernatural powers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steal The Moon Books
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987506011

Matthew Robert Howe

Educated in all matters fine and delicate; a glorified bum, incorrigible daydreamer, and no-good layabout with a penchant for the literary, taste for the theatrical, and an unabashed fondness for the morbid, strange and obscure.When he's not writing you'll often find him rocking in his chair like an old man, lifting weights (and nursing recurring soft tissue injuries), watching horror movies, and practicing light witchcraft in the forests surrounding his home.He lives in New England, where he considers Autumn the finest season, Halloween the best holiday, and Pumpkin the only kind of pie.

Book preview

The

Iron Circus

Matthew Robert Howe

Steal The Moon Books

Copyright © 2022 by Matthew Robert Howe

This is the part where people usually put a bunch of weaselly legal disclaimers and scary-sounding explanations of what copyright law says you can’t do with this book. As it turns out, you don’t have to include any of that here—it doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just something people are used to seeing, so they keep putting it in. Just try really hard not to steal my work (I own the rights to this.) or sue me (I’m innocent!) and we’ll call it square, okay?

(Alright, we actually need to put this stuff here; this part is serious business.)

Published by Steal The Moon Books (That’s me!)

West Springfield, Massachusetts

matthewroberthowe.com

ISBN: 979-8-9875060-1-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022923613

For you.

(Yes, you!)

I hope you like it.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

About the Author

ONE

There is no wrong way to have a picnic. At least, this is what Mr. Butterfield kept repeating as they peeled their oranges.

There is no wrong way to have a picnic, you know, said Mr. Butterfield. When I was a boy we’d have picnics just about anywhere. In meadows, on beaches, picturesque clearings in the woods—certainly, but also in caves, up in trees, sometimes even on the road itself if traffic was light enough.

Lewis considered this as his fingers worked to remove the fuzzy white pith between two segments of his orange, the texture of which he did not enjoy in his mouth. It was like eating an alien.

It’s like eating an alien, Lewis said, the juice spraying out from between his teeth as he bit into what he had decided was a suitably clean segment.

We never had picnics with aliens, Mr. Butterfield continued while more carefully chewing his own orange, less particularly peeled. Do you know any we can invite for the next one?

I don’t, returned Lewis. I wonder what planet my babysitter came from, sometimes, though.

Mr. Butterfield chuckled but didn’t say anything.

Did you ever have picnics in basements? asked Lewis, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in the rough cinderblock walls, haphazardly placed cardboard boxes, his father’s tools, and the washing machine and dryer.

Mr. Butterfield leaned back against the water heater, having finished his orange. Oh yes; it was not uncommon—on a rainy and unfortunate day such as this—for all of us to head down to the basement for a picnic. Some of our finest picnics were held in basements, in fact.

Lewis rolled part of the checkered tablecloth they were sitting on between two fingers, his glasses sliding down his nose as he tilted his head forward. The basement always had a damp, musty sort of smell to it, and today was no exception. Rather than covering it up (as he had hoped), the fresh citrusy smell of the oranges had mixed thoroughly with the basement smell, resulting in an odor Lewis’s nose found strange and upsetting.

There’s no wrong way to have a picnic, you know.

The setting was cheerful enough, he supposed. Mr. Butterfield had supplied the tablecloth and iconic handled basket which opened from two different directions, as well as the sandwiches. Lewis had suggested the oranges as dessert by way of direction from his mother, who had, on her way out the door leaving for work that morning, commanded they eat them for lunch. You don’t want to get scurvy, she had said, before pulling the door closed against a gust of wind. Lewis did not know what scurvy was but decided it sounded unpleasant enough to forgo their usual chocolate turtles.

The average summer weekday during which his parents went to work found Lewis in the care of Mr. Butterfield, who had retired from his job as a schoolteacher some centuries previous and now spent his days making Lewis’s life miserable. Despite being off from school, a day with Mr. Butterfield was highly regimented, beginning early at eight o’clock just after his father and mother had left for work. Eight to eleven o’clock was reserved for chores around and about the house, eleven to noon for Mathematics, noon to one o’clock for lunch, and the hours of one to four o’clock for the study of English, History, and Science, respectively. Four until whatever time after five o’clock Lewis’s parents returned home was used for some kind of what Mr. Butterfield referred to as Physical Play or General Exercise, which could be as simple as going for a walk outdoors, or involving some strange ancient game such as the time they batted their hands at a ball tied to a pole.

There would be no walk today on account of the rain, and the morning’s chores had all been equally indoors and dreary, as they had been for the past three days of poor weather. Lewis was in considerably low spirits by the time Mathematics rolled around, at which point Mr. Butterfield had suggested a picnic lunch. When Lewis, gesturing toward the window where outside it was pouring rain quite sideways, questioned the wisdom of picnicking on a day like today, Mr. Butterfield had only chuckled and replied There is no wrong way to have a picnic.

Mr. Butterfield looked at his wristwatch before stretching his arms high above his bald head in various wide motions. I suppose we should clean this up and get ready for English, he said.

Lewis sighed, his face angled toward one of the small high-mounted basement windows, the droplets of rain running across the pane in a direction just shy of horizontal. If it rains again tomorrow can we have a picnic in the attic? he asked.

If it rains tomorrow, I see no reason why not, responded Mr. Butterfield, banging an elbow on a copper pipe. Attics make for excellent picnics. There’s no wrong way to have a picnic, you know, he said, rubbing his elbow and standing up, careful to duck his head beneath another, larger pipe.

Lewis stood in turn, dusting off his pants with his hands.

So I’ve heard.

***

The afternoon of Lewis’s day with Mr. Butterfield was spent much the same as the morning, with the latter carrying on quite placidly in the face of the former struggling to keep his mind on his studies. Often quite literally, as Mr. Butterfield had that old instructor’s habit of quietly pacing the room while Lewis worked, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally leaning down over his student’s shoulder to offer some words of critique or support, whichever the situation warranted. Lewis fidgeted and sighed the whole way through both English and History, and by the time Science was halfway done had taken to simply hunching over the table, his head and jaw supported by one arm, the other hanging limply at his side as he stared blankly at a spot on the wall just above Mr. Butterfield’s head.

"…Which, of course, you can easily notice by looking at common examples from various species in each genus. Or—more accurately—one could had they been paying more attention to the lesson."

Lewis continued to stare.

And not drooling on their grandmother’s fine cherry table, Mr. Butterfield finished, pointing accusingly at a small puddle forming beneath Lewis’s open mouth.

You were saying something about a butterfly, I think, Lewis offered, using his sleeve’s elbow to soak up the puddle.

In contrast to their lunches, where he was generally pleasant and lighthearted (if perhaps a bit long-winded), Mr. Butterfield tended to adopt a somewhat sterner attitude during lessons, which he considered to be very serious and important despite the fact that Lewis was enrolled in an actual school for the majority of the year; a school where he personally felt he received quite enough instruction to hold him over during what was meant to be a vacation, thank-you-very-much.

It was a hummingbird, actually, Mr. Butterfield responded. Would you prefer to discuss butterflies? Or will you still find yourself as enthralled with that spot on the wall above my head as you did when we were discussing semicolons or the Byzantine Empire?

Lewis sighed and shrugged. As far as he was concerned, it was all the same to him today.

Very well then, Mr. Butterfield said as he closed the large handwritten notebook he always consulted during his lessons. Perhaps we could use this opportunity for another chess lesson? he suggested, gesturing toward the board and pieces at the far end of the table.

I’ll pass, Lewis said, looking at the black and white pieces distastefully. I never win, anyway.

Which is why you must continue to practice, Mr. Butterfield encouraged.

Lewis shrugged again.

In that case, Mr. Butterfield said, motioning toward the living room, I believe it’s about time for Physical Play or General Exercise.

It was, in fact, over thirty minutes too early to finish lessons for the day, but Lewis decided this was not worth mentioning to Mr. Butterfield. They left the dining room (which Mr. Butterfield preferred for lessons on account of the table and what he referred to as "acoustics") and proceeded into the living room, which was used for exercise on rainy days primarily due to its carpeted floor and relative lack of breakable furniture.

Mr. Butterfield stood directly in front of the television, hands on his hips; Lewis suspected this was an intentional move on his teacher’s part, despite use of the TV being entirely forbidden during the entirety of the day. Lewis imagined Mr. Butterfield held some sort of grudge against TV, probably because it wasn’t yet invented when he was young enough to enjoy it.

Now, Mr. Butterfield began, What exercises shall we do today? Push-ups? Jumping Jacks? Sit-ups with a twist?

We did those yesterday, complained Lewis. And the day before.

Well, there’s always Mountain Climbers and Burpees, Mr. Butterfield offered, with a knowing tone to his voice.

Lewis shuddered involuntarily at the memory. No thanks. Not again.

What about skipping rope? When I was a boy we always loved skipping rope, indoors or out. Occasionally we’d even skip rope in the street if traffic was—

We don’t have any rope, Lewis interrupted, Skipping or otherwise.

Oh, one always has a skipping rope if one knows where to look, Mr. Butterfield said, raising an eyebrow and holding out his hands, motioning for Lewis to follow his lead.

Lewis saw where this was going. Having run out of sighs for the day, he held his hands out in front of himself, resigned.

Mr. Butterfield made two fists with his outstretched hands, drawing them sharply to the sides. This will do quite nicely, I think. Decent snap to it. How’s yours?

Lewis wobbled his fists up and down, weakly. Mine seems kind of worn out, that’s too bad.

Well, in that case, I suppose we’ll have to trade, Mr. Butterfield folded his rope in half, and mimed handing it over to Lewis, who tossed his own worn-out version back in turn.

It’s not that bad, to be fair, Mr. Butterfield noted as he gave Lewis’s former rope a few practice snaps. I think I prefer this one, to be honest. It has more character.

Lewis’s dark expression brightened a bit at the idea. I can’t really be expected to skip with a characterless rope, can I? I guess we’ll have to call it a day, then?

Mr. Butterfield chuckled, positioning his hands down by his sides. Character can be happened upon, certainly, if one is lucky enough. In the absence of luck however…

Lewis’s hopeful expression fell.

"…it can always be built!"

If someone, perhaps a neighbor passing by on the street, seeking some brief shelter from the storm under the overhang; or the postman, turning his head after placing letters in the box next to the door, had happened—on this unfortunate rainy day—to peer through the living room window of Lewis Bokurtz’s house at that moment, that someone would have seen a most peculiar sight:

An old man, lively and determined, shouting encouragement while jumping up and down stood in front of an unpowered television; his charge, a small, grim-faced boy with glasses doing his best to follow; their arms held straight down by their sides, fists clenched, wrists turning rhythmically, their chests rising and falling as they panted for air, both holding absolutely no skipping ropes at all.

TWO

The following day, much like the previous, found Lewis and Mr. Butterfield at lunch.

The attic—unlike the basement—was completely free of any kind of clutter, and harbored very few pipes Mr. Butterfield could bang his head on. What the space lacked in tools, laundry and overhead hazards, however, it more than made up for in temperature. Mr. Butterfield had arrived that morning in hat, gloves and jacket, exclaiming something about an anomalous cold front, which (much to Lewis’s dismay) he assured would be explained in greater detail during that afternoon’s Science lesson.

You’re certain it won’t be cold enough to snow? Lewis asked, pawing at the rind of an orange with his gloved hands.

Oh, one can never be certain when it comes to weather, Mr. Butterfield replied, removing his gloves so he could begin attending to his own orange. Weather is extremely difficult to predict, you know.

Lewis’s face brightened as he looked up from his orange. You’re saying there’s a chance?

Extremely unlikely, said Mr. Butterfield, at which point Lewis lost his grip on his orange, sending it rolling into the picnic basket placed between the two.

As always, in situations such as these it’s generally wise to temper one’s expectations, Mr. Butterfield said, a tone of apology in his voice. He motioned for Lewis to toss his orange over, which Lewis did, using two gloved hands after spending some further time struggling to pick it up.

Lewis sat back against the wall, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof shingles. The attic was not large, but the ceiling was very high, eventually proceeding up to a pointed gable which held one small window at each end. On a less disappointing day these windows would have provided enough light to illuminate the attic, but today the difference was made up by one bare hanging lightbulb centered in the room, diligently inspected by Mr. Butterfield before being turned on.

What’s the fun of cold if there’s no snow? Lewis asked, his mouth open wide in an attempt to see his own breath.

Oh, there’s great fun to be had in the cold, Mr. Butterfield said, doing his best to remove most of the pith from Lewis’s orange, now peeled and segmented. When I was your age, on days such as this the neighborhood boys and I would play a game where we would pluck long chilled blades of grass from the meadows and blow on them to see who could get theirs to wilt first. We would even place bets, using pocket change or bits of candy. One time I had nearly cleaned out the lot of them, almost fourteen cents in total (which was a lot of money in those days and in some places still is), but Winston had the Scarlet Fever and blew hotter than I ever could.

Lewis had his own opinions concerning this game and the great fun to be had playing it, which he graciously kept to himself.

What did he do with the money? Lewis asked.

Mr. Butterfield tossed Lewis’s orange segments back to him tied in a napkin, which Lewis actually caught, somehow.

Oh, his parents put on a lovely service, Mr. Butterfield finished, gazing wistfully out a window.

Lewis bit into an orange segment after winning a drawn-out struggle with the napkin. Do you ever feel bored, Mr. Butterfield?

Bored? Mr. Butterfield considered the question, returning to the care of his own orange. I suppose everyone feels bored from time to time.

Lewis craned his head back against the wall, his eyes fixed on what passed for a ceiling. "I don’t mean from time to time, I mean all the time."

Mr. Butterfield set his orange down, his face having assumed an expression of thoughtful concern. "All the time? He asked, gesturing widely with an outstretched arm, as if the attic they currently occupied was a representation of the entire world. Even when you’re not at lessons?"

Well, Lewis began, "Not all the time, exactly. Mostly at lessons, but lots of other times, too. Today, for example—I woke up, ate breakfast, brushed my teeth and got dressed, then you came over and we did chores, and lessons, and once lunch is over we’ll do more lessons, and exercise, and then my parents will come home and I’ll eat dinner, brush my teeth, go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow. It’s boring."

What did you have for breakfast? Mr. Butterfield asked.

Corn flakes, Lewis responded.

With sugar?

Just corn flakes. My mother says sugar causes diabetes.

I agree, that’s not terribly exciting, Mr. Butterfield nodded apologetically.

Corn flakes or diabetes? Lewis asked.

Both. What about the week-end? I’m sure you have something to look forward to then?

Not really.

You won’t see your friends?

Dennis and James are both at summer camp in Scotland.

"Well, that certainly sounds exciting!" Mr. Butterfield realized his mistake as soon as he spoke.

It does, doesn’t it? Lewis sighed deeply and leaned forward until his face nearly touched the floor. They sent me a postcard a couple weeks ago. Something about the whole camp going on an expedition to hunt the Wild Haggis. It sounded like a lot of fun.

Mr. Butterfield’s smile went unnoticed by Lewis, who was still staring at and just above the floor.

If you like, I could come by this week-end, and we could do something fun together.

Lewis shuddered, his nose making contact with the floorboards. There’s nothing fun about semicolons, Mr. Butterfield.

Mr. Butterfield chuckled, "Not for lessons. Something fun. An extracurricular activity."

Lewis sat up, the tip of his nose gray with dust. "Extracurricular?" he asked, eyebrows raised suspiciously.

As in not part of the regular curriculum, Mr. Butterfield adopted his instructor’s tone, holding a single finger in the air for emphasis. "Something extra. In order to foster the creation of a more well-rounded individual."

So, not lessons? Lewis asked, his face brightening slightly.

Not lessons, Mr. Butterfield stated, hand held over his heart, You have my word.

Can we hunt the Wild Haggis?

I’m not sure your mother would approve of hunting… Mr. Butterfield’s eyes searched the ceiling, his chin in hand, Have you ever been fishing?

Dad says we’ll go sometime, but he’s always too busy to take me.

Very well then, fishing it is.

Lewis stood, nearly stepping on Mr. Butterfield’s orange in his excitement, which had been slowly rolling in his direction, unnoticed by anyone, for several minutes. "Do I need my own fishing stuff? Should I get it now?" he asked, half-breathless in the cold.

You can bring your own if you like; if not, I have enough for the two of us. Mr. Butterfield also stood, minding his head unnecessarily under the high vaulted ceiling. Bending over, he plucked the now-dust-covered orange from the floor at Lewis’s feet, blowing on it and frowning. But that’s not for two days yet; why don’t we get this cleaned up and head downstairs for English.

Lewis’s excitement faded as quickly as it had sprung up. Two days, he considered, was practically an eternity.

Oh, we can take the basket with us this week-end, as well, Mr. Butterfield remarked, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

Lewis stared for a thousand yards, despite the small size of the attic. "There’s no wrong way to have a picnic," he said, his voice hollow.

Indeed, responded Mr. Butterfield. Are you aware you have dust on your nose?

Lewis pouted out his lower lip and exhaled hard upward, the resulting great puff of dust only settling to the ground after they had gathered their things and returned to the dining room for lessons.

THREE

That evening found Lewis seated at the dinner table with his parents, as many evenings did. Unlike Mr. Butterfield’s lessons, dinners at the Bokurtz household generally took place in the kitchen, not the dining room, which Lewis both accepted as normal and also sometimes wondered about to himself when no one else was around.

It was generally agreed that a fishing trip with Mr. Butterfield was an excellent idea, and would probably lift Lewis’s spirits a bit as—now that he mentioned it—he had seemed rather glum lately. Lewis was assured by his father that he would help him locate the fishing stuff in the garage before that weekend.

Lewis, however, had his doubts.

We could get it now so you don’t forget, Lewis said, moving the peas around his plate with a fork.

I won’t forget, his father reassured, actually eating his peas.

I could get it myself, if you just tell me where it is.

I’ll get it tomorrow after work. There’s a bunch of junk in the way and you could hurt yourself on a hook.

I’ll be careful, Lewis protested, continuing to move his peas, less convincingly than before.

It’s on one of the high shelves; you’d have to climb up there. You’re afraid of heights. Remember what happened last autumn when you tried to climb that tree with your friends?

I climbed the tree just fine, I just slipped on the way down.

You slipped because you’re afraid of heights. Remember what happened on that Ferris Wheel last spring? You were shaking the entire time and we had to stop the ride and get off early.

I was shaking because it was windy and cold! The whole thing was shaking! Lewis said, beginning to neglect his peas completely in his indignation.

I’ll get it tomorrow, his father repeated, I promise.

You promise you won’t forget? Lewis asked.

I promise, his father replied, setting down his fork for emphasis before picking it back up again and finishing his peas.

Eat your peas, his mother