The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus by Clive Barker, David Niall Wilson, Richard A. Kirk Page A
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of the field. Close to the edge it squatted on its lean haunches, and peered through the twilight until its gaze rested upon the caravan, standing unguarded in the middle of the field. Then it turned, leaned over the Edge of the World once more, and hissed.
“Ullock, Ashur, Solomon, Wind and Weather, there’s a Circus, there’s a Circus making all this noise. And a caravan, a painted caravan, which we shall drag over the Edge.”
At the sound of the Troll’s hiss, from their holes in the World’s side, the rest of the tribe appeared: foul-looking creatures with boars’ tusks and iguanas’ tails. There they had been living, in slimy burrows in the Side of the World, since they were exiled from the flat earth before Babylon fell. And though they were forbidden to ever set palm or sole upon the top of the world again, they nevertheless crept out at night and ventured into town, terrorizing people, stealing babies and leaving their own hideous off-spring in the cots. That was why the towns-people locked themselves in their homes, and kept their children from playing in the streets.
Silent as darkness itself, the trolls crossed the field towards the caravan, squirming in the mud like migrating eels. Domingo, meanwhile, was practising his juggling with two bruised oranges, before his cue to begin his act, and as the trolls knotted their goat-tong rope around the caravan, and heaved, he heard the wheels squeaking and the Troll-King’s voice hissing:
“Pull, Ulock! Pull, Ashur! Solomon, bend your back! Wind and Weather! Pull! PULL! Rawhead and Bloody-Bones commands.”
In the gloom, Domingo could just see the dark shapes of the trolls, and the caravan’s imminent destruction, and without thinking of the danger, he stepped onto his blue ball and rolled towards them. The spindle-limbed creatures were pulling as hard as they could, but the wheels of the caravan spun in the mud, and it was heavy work.
“Put your backs into it!” roared Rawhead and Bloody-Bones, his black, three-forked tongue curling in front of his nose.
“Stop! Stop!” yelled Domingo, rolling towards them. “Bacchus! Malachi! They’re stealing the caravan.”
Now the caravan was only a few feet from the End of the World, and the trolls were swarming over it like maggots, pushing, pulling, shrieking and grunting.
The next moment, the back wheels slid off the edge into oblivion, and the caravan was balanced precariously between safety and disaster. Laughing now in expectation of their triumph, the trolls prepared for a final push. But as they did so, they found themselves pelted with green oranges by Domingo, who was rolling towards them at a furious rate.
All the commotion had, of course, stopped the show, and the towns-people, seeing the trolls, were scattering in all directions. Mr. Bacchus picked up his ringmaster’s whip and strode across the field, cracking it above his head. At the sight and the sound, the trolls fled for their lives, believing the magicians had returned. It was then that Mr. Bacchus spotted Domingo, still on his ball, hurtling towards the Edge of the World.
“Look out! Clown!” he yelled. “Jump off, my boy!” But Domingo was too angry to listen, and by the time he saw the Edge of the World yawning before him, it was too late. The ball spun beneath him and the Edge rushed closer and closer. In a high, frightened voice he cried, “Grimaldi!” and then disappeared. The trolls, clinging to the side of the world, watched him fall past them, and threw clods of earth at him, shrieking with pleasure at his fate.
Mr. Bacchus reached the Edge of the World, and peered over. The Clown was disappearing into the darkness at a tremendous speed, becoming smaller and more indistinct as each moment passed, until only his flour-white face could be seen in the gloom, peering up as if from depths of a bottomless black sea.
“Oh, Sybil,” said Mr. Bacchus to himself. “You should have told me. Now the poor boy’s
“Ullock, Ashur, Solomon, Wind and Weather, there’s a Circus, there’s a Circus making all this noise. And a caravan, a painted caravan, which we shall drag over the Edge.”
At the sound of the Troll’s hiss, from their holes in the World’s side, the rest of the tribe appeared: foul-looking creatures with boars’ tusks and iguanas’ tails. There they had been living, in slimy burrows in the Side of the World, since they were exiled from the flat earth before Babylon fell. And though they were forbidden to ever set palm or sole upon the top of the world again, they nevertheless crept out at night and ventured into town, terrorizing people, stealing babies and leaving their own hideous off-spring in the cots. That was why the towns-people locked themselves in their homes, and kept their children from playing in the streets.
Silent as darkness itself, the trolls crossed the field towards the caravan, squirming in the mud like migrating eels. Domingo, meanwhile, was practising his juggling with two bruised oranges, before his cue to begin his act, and as the trolls knotted their goat-tong rope around the caravan, and heaved, he heard the wheels squeaking and the Troll-King’s voice hissing:
“Pull, Ulock! Pull, Ashur! Solomon, bend your back! Wind and Weather! Pull! PULL! Rawhead and Bloody-Bones commands.”
In the gloom, Domingo could just see the dark shapes of the trolls, and the caravan’s imminent destruction, and without thinking of the danger, he stepped onto his blue ball and rolled towards them. The spindle-limbed creatures were pulling as hard as they could, but the wheels of the caravan spun in the mud, and it was heavy work.
“Put your backs into it!” roared Rawhead and Bloody-Bones, his black, three-forked tongue curling in front of his nose.
“Stop! Stop!” yelled Domingo, rolling towards them. “Bacchus! Malachi! They’re stealing the caravan.”
Now the caravan was only a few feet from the End of the World, and the trolls were swarming over it like maggots, pushing, pulling, shrieking and grunting.
The next moment, the back wheels slid off the edge into oblivion, and the caravan was balanced precariously between safety and disaster. Laughing now in expectation of their triumph, the trolls prepared for a final push. But as they did so, they found themselves pelted with green oranges by Domingo, who was rolling towards them at a furious rate.
All the commotion had, of course, stopped the show, and the towns-people, seeing the trolls, were scattering in all directions. Mr. Bacchus picked up his ringmaster’s whip and strode across the field, cracking it above his head. At the sight and the sound, the trolls fled for their lives, believing the magicians had returned. It was then that Mr. Bacchus spotted Domingo, still on his ball, hurtling towards the Edge of the World.
“Look out! Clown!” he yelled. “Jump off, my boy!” But Domingo was too angry to listen, and by the time he saw the Edge of the World yawning before him, it was too late. The ball spun beneath him and the Edge rushed closer and closer. In a high, frightened voice he cried, “Grimaldi!” and then disappeared. The trolls, clinging to the side of the world, watched him fall past them, and threw clods of earth at him, shrieking with pleasure at his fate.
Mr. Bacchus reached the Edge of the World, and peered over. The Clown was disappearing into the darkness at a tremendous speed, becoming smaller and more indistinct as each moment passed, until only his flour-white face could be seen in the gloom, peering up as if from depths of a bottomless black sea.
“Oh, Sybil,” said Mr. Bacchus to himself. “You should have told me. Now the poor boy’s
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