The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus by Clive Barker, David Niall Wilson, Richard A. Kirk Page B
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gone.”
Ophelia, who had followed Mr. Bacchus to the edge, burst into tears. “He said,” she wept, “he said we should have camped elsewhere.”
“Serves him right,” said Malachi coldly. “He should have had more sense. Anyway, we’ve still got our caravan.”
Indeed, the Clown had saved the caravan, which was still balanced on the Edge of the World, its back wheels slowly spinning in space. But, by the time everyone had reached the Edge, there was nothing to be seen of Domingo. Even his face had been consumed by the gloom. And the trolls had crept back into their burrows to quake at the memory of Mr. Bacchus’ whip. The night was empty, except for the stars and the rising moon.
All the towns-people had, of course, disappeared into the town, ushering their children before them, so that was the end of the show. Only the blacksmith was left, a burly man with a black beard, who, because he had neither wife nor child, was less frightened of the trolls than the rest.
“I’m sorry about the Clown,” he said. “If you like, I’ll round up a few of these cowards in the town tomorrow, and help you haul your caravan back over the Edge of the World. You’re best away from here, where you can forget what happened tonight. For now, you can sleep in my forge, if that’s not beneath you, sirs. It’s cold brick and iron, but it’s dry.”
And as if to give emphasis to his words, black clouds billowed up from over the edge, covering the moon, and it began to rain.
The following morning, after having passed an uncomfortable night in the forge, the Circus returned to the field, with those towns-men the blacksmith had been able to rouse. With ropes, levers and pulleys the caravan was at last heaved to safety on the muddy field. It was a long and difficult business, because the vehicle was so delicately balanced that the merest cough would undoubtedly have sent it plummeting over the Edge. It took nearly all day in fact, weighing up the situation, tying the ropes, arranging the pulleys, and so forth, and when it was done everyone was relieved. There were no smiles, however; no congratulations, because the Circus company and the towns-people alike were thinking about Domingo.
“Well,” said Mr. Bacchus finally. “You have been most generous with your assistance. What can we offer you in return? Only the Circus. The songs! The Excitement! The laughter! Well, perhaps not the laughter. Still, the least we can do is give you a free performance.”
“But the trolls,” said one man. “Suppose they return?”
“I have my whip,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “Which they cower before. You and your families will be quite safe.”
“Yes,” said the blacksmith. “What have we to fear from them? They’ve claimed their victim; they will be sated with their mischief.”
This seemed to satisfy the men, and they took the road back to the town to collect their wives and children. It was almost dark by the time the stage, the lights and the flags had been once more prepared for the performance, and the audience had drifted in from the town, their faces nervous and pale.
Ophelia performed once more, although every now and then she looked as if she might cry. Hero lifted Mr. Bacchus singlehandedly, which, he said, made the six bulls feel like so many pebbles. Malachi sang some melancholy excerpts from this and that, Angelo summoned his moths, and Bathsheba danced a job on Thoth.
Beyond the small, torch-lit stage, as night fell, the stars rose over the Edge of the World, and began to glimmer in the night sky. They were followed by the moon, like a sliver of peel.
“Well,” said Mr. Bacchus, when all the acts were finished. “That’s the end of the performance. Bow, everyone.” And he sighed heavily. Though each had done his best, the Circus would never quite be the same without the Clown. The company was lined up to take their bows, not a smile on a single face, when quite suddenly the audience gasped, stood
Ophelia, who had followed Mr. Bacchus to the edge, burst into tears. “He said,” she wept, “he said we should have camped elsewhere.”
“Serves him right,” said Malachi coldly. “He should have had more sense. Anyway, we’ve still got our caravan.”
Indeed, the Clown had saved the caravan, which was still balanced on the Edge of the World, its back wheels slowly spinning in space. But, by the time everyone had reached the Edge, there was nothing to be seen of Domingo. Even his face had been consumed by the gloom. And the trolls had crept back into their burrows to quake at the memory of Mr. Bacchus’ whip. The night was empty, except for the stars and the rising moon.
All the towns-people had, of course, disappeared into the town, ushering their children before them, so that was the end of the show. Only the blacksmith was left, a burly man with a black beard, who, because he had neither wife nor child, was less frightened of the trolls than the rest.
“I’m sorry about the Clown,” he said. “If you like, I’ll round up a few of these cowards in the town tomorrow, and help you haul your caravan back over the Edge of the World. You’re best away from here, where you can forget what happened tonight. For now, you can sleep in my forge, if that’s not beneath you, sirs. It’s cold brick and iron, but it’s dry.”
And as if to give emphasis to his words, black clouds billowed up from over the edge, covering the moon, and it began to rain.
The following morning, after having passed an uncomfortable night in the forge, the Circus returned to the field, with those towns-men the blacksmith had been able to rouse. With ropes, levers and pulleys the caravan was at last heaved to safety on the muddy field. It was a long and difficult business, because the vehicle was so delicately balanced that the merest cough would undoubtedly have sent it plummeting over the Edge. It took nearly all day in fact, weighing up the situation, tying the ropes, arranging the pulleys, and so forth, and when it was done everyone was relieved. There were no smiles, however; no congratulations, because the Circus company and the towns-people alike were thinking about Domingo.
“Well,” said Mr. Bacchus finally. “You have been most generous with your assistance. What can we offer you in return? Only the Circus. The songs! The Excitement! The laughter! Well, perhaps not the laughter. Still, the least we can do is give you a free performance.”
“But the trolls,” said one man. “Suppose they return?”
“I have my whip,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “Which they cower before. You and your families will be quite safe.”
“Yes,” said the blacksmith. “What have we to fear from them? They’ve claimed their victim; they will be sated with their mischief.”
This seemed to satisfy the men, and they took the road back to the town to collect their wives and children. It was almost dark by the time the stage, the lights and the flags had been once more prepared for the performance, and the audience had drifted in from the town, their faces nervous and pale.
Ophelia performed once more, although every now and then she looked as if she might cry. Hero lifted Mr. Bacchus singlehandedly, which, he said, made the six bulls feel like so many pebbles. Malachi sang some melancholy excerpts from this and that, Angelo summoned his moths, and Bathsheba danced a job on Thoth.
Beyond the small, torch-lit stage, as night fell, the stars rose over the Edge of the World, and began to glimmer in the night sky. They were followed by the moon, like a sliver of peel.
“Well,” said Mr. Bacchus, when all the acts were finished. “That’s the end of the performance. Bow, everyone.” And he sighed heavily. Though each had done his best, the Circus would never quite be the same without the Clown. The company was lined up to take their bows, not a smile on a single face, when quite suddenly the audience gasped, stood
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