Professor Vlkoslags Traveling Medicine Show

“Step right up folks! Professor Vlkoslag’s Traveling Medicine Show will be opening tonight, bringing wonders and marvels beyond your wildest dreams.” I tip my top hat to a couple of ladies walking down the street here in Las Vegas, New Mexico. A brief gust of wind sends a swirl of dust and brittle leaves across the camp. The scent of damp canvas, oiled leather, and woodsmoke lingers in the air. In the distance, a dog barks, and the faint sound of a hammer striking metal rings from a blacksmith’s forge. The town is waking up from winter’s grip, but it hasn’t quite shaken it off.

Despite the chill of the day, there is the promise of spring in the air as the scent of blossoms, faint but unmistakable, drifts on the breeze from somewhere beyond the town. “We have entertainments to delight and beguile, patent medicines to cure most every ailment and talismans to protect from every danger,” My voice rings out with well-practiced charm, blending with the murmur of the passersby. I glance over at the roustabouts as they work to get everything set up and ready. The rhythmic thud-thud-thudof mallets driving stakes into the ground mixes with the occasional clangof metal as the stage is assembled. The coarse paper of the handbills scratches slightly against my fingers reminding me it’s time for me to get started. The faint but sharp aroma of medicinal herbs, camphor, sassafras, and licorice root, drifts from my wagon as I set out to meet the locals. Time for me to see what we have to work with in this town.

Crunch. The sound catches my attention as I step away from my wagon. I lift my boot and see what looks like a cross between a spider and a scorpion. A wind scorpion, I think. With care I reach down and scoop up the remains. “You will be the star of the show,” I whisper, turning back to my enclosed wagon. I pause for a moment taking in the sight of my traveling home. Like the other wagons used by our troupe my wagon has seen better days. Once a grand, crimson showpiece, it is now faded and chipped from too many miles on dusty roads. The gold lettering still boldly proclaims Professor Vlkoslag’s Traveling Medicine Show though the edges are peeling, and the flourishes could use a fresh coat of paint. The fold-down steps at the back creak when I step on them, but they hold, just like always. She’s a little shabby, a little theatrical—but so am I, and she still gets the job done.

I place the wind scorpion on the table and with deliberate precision draw the chalk lines forming an intricate web to contain the dark magic I will be using. Softly muttering the words of the spell, I take the silver pin from my hat and stab the vein in my wrist, allowing several drops of blood to fall on the arachnid. Neither a true spider nor a true scorpion, wind scorpions are extremely common in arid regions like the American Southwest. But my version will only be seen by those who visit the show tonight and only for a very limited time.