Ineffable

Ineffable

By

C.SeanMcGee

Ineffable

Copyright© C. Sean McGee

CSM Publishing

Published at Smashwords

Araraquara, São Paulo, Brazil 2015

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

Author Foto: Carla Raiter

Copy Editor: Anna Vanti

Cover Artwork:

le fête

by Mario Duplantier

www.marioduplantier.com

The Experimental Generation of Interpersonal Closeness: A Procedure and Some Preliminary Findings from the SAGE Social Science Colllections - All Rights Reserved.

Support independent art before it cuts its own ear off.

I

Missing were the clashing symbols, pounding drums and exalting horns that might have marked their entrance. Missing too were the choirs of chanting and jubilant cheering that might have lit their path. In fact, for all the pomp and ceremony that one would expect from such a thing, it was actually quite a dull affair, and rather tiresome to watch.

There was very little sound, except of course for the crunching of dried leaves beneath the wheels of heavy, creaking carriages. That and the clapping of splintering rocks and gravel, trodden upon by worn hooves and exhausted, shaking legs as the procession slowly made its way along the dusty path under a cold, starless sky.

Though it was the dead of night, still, there were scores of people lined up along the winding road, watching the troupe as they shuffled along like the recently condemned (or soon to be departed); with not nearly as much colour and spirit in their eyes as they wore upon their polka dotted pants, in ribbons that tied around their bright puffy shirts, and upon their decorated faces, of which cracked and peeled with paint that was as dry and recessive as the stony path on which they travelled.

At the head of the procession, a tiny tattooed man with biceps as big as boulders and a mean glare that overshadowed his dwarfish stature, held the reigns of a dozen horses with one hand, and with the other, he waved regally to the scores of people who pushed and prodded one another, vying for best vantage point - wriggling like worms into a knotted tangle of excitement and appetent curiosity.

Sitting on the first of the dozen horses was Gaia, a beautiful woman with a thorny vine tattooed on one side of her face, which ran down her neck and vanished between her ample bosom. She had sharp, curling fingernails which looked like darkly coloured talons and hair - as black as the night – that trailed nearly as long as the procession itself, running like an unwoven veil, down the length of her back and over her horse’s croup, almost courting with the rocks and dusted earth below. She wore a long, pleated, black skirt that partly covered her sandaled feet, showing only the stars and comets that were painted on the tips of her toes. And upon the left arm of her white lace blouse, unlike the others in her procession, she wore a single black ribbon.

Behind her, and only just, rode a brutish and unshapely man with flamboyant attire. He wore a purple suit that was studded with diamonds and pearls, and from the sleeves of his arms ran a glittering display of brightly coloured tassels. He sat high on his steed and carried in his left hand, a long cane with a golden ferrule, a crystal handle, and a silver tip. And on his head, he wore a purple top hat which upon it, a small monkey sat, comfortably curled and sleeping as it rocked back and forth by the gentle sway of the whiskered man on the second most elegant horse.

And behind him, on the other ten steeds, rode his whores.

There might have been fifty carriages in all. Some of them were quaint and colourful and others, grand and bulking - oddly shaped and coloured, like great mechanical Frankensteins. And those that marched alongside did so on spent and uneven footing; their toes poking through the ends of their shoes with their leathered soles, as thin as the creamy skin of freshly boiled milk.

There were all sorts of strangers of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colour, and from all corners of the globe and the galaxy it would seem. It was as if this procession were a slowly moving stream that had passed along the sidewalks and through the gutters of communities, taking with it, the waste and unwanted that had been discarded, or merely didn’t fit with the good and the common.

By the side of the road, a young boy nervously trampled a mound of weeds and grey flowers, holding his father’s hand in a loose grip while allowing the weight of his curiosity to lean him towards slipping free. As he moved to dart away from his father’s side to where all of the others were gathering, his wrist caught on something strained and concerning, and the boy turned, unable to alight from his own muddy footprints.

No, said the boy’s father. We don’t know their intentions.

Who are they? asked The Young Boy, craning like a starving petal towards the light of his father’s sure stare.

I’m not sure.

Why are they here?

It’s still too soon for us to know.

But when will we know?

Only long after they have gone, when we can see what they have taken from us. Only then will we know what they wanted all along.

They look so different, so….

Strange, said the boy’s father coldly.

Yes, but in a good way.

There is no good way to strangeness.

Do you think they can help us?

I very much doubt it.

There’s so many, said the boy, losing his focus on the long line of trampling feet.

He stared with such absent regard for the outlines that separated each stranger so that they looked like one colourful collage - inseparable from one another, and from the plumes of hot air expelled by their wheezing breaths. They were, like paint poured into a stream, inseparable from the air itself.

We’re going, said the boy’s father, pulling on the neck of his son’s shirt.

Just a little longer father, please? said the boy, squirming away from his father’s clasp.

I told you replied the boy’s father, kneeling down to look his son in the eyes, and squeezing his arm with the bruising intent of a spurned headmaster, or an ireful criminal. Home is where we live, and outside is where…

The rest come to die, I know, I know, but, maybe it’s not as bad as….

Son, said the father, his eyes like scalpels, cutting through the boy’s reason.

But there’s so many father. Maybe there’s…

The procession continued along the dusted, cobblestone path, seemingly in the direction of town. And those who gathered under the starless night had panic in their eyes as they turned their stares towards the unlocked doors of their homes and their theatres, wanting but unable to, shoo away the wolves that crept about in the darkness before them.

What say here Master? shouted The Tiny Tattooed Man, pointing to a break in the brush and scrub where the leaves and grass folded into a flat, even bedding. Or up ahead, by that sickly old tree.

The Ringmaster looked in the direction of where The Tiny Tattooed Man’s small stubby fingers were pointing, nodding once to show his approval, and waking the little monkey from its comfortable sleep.

Halt! shouted The Ringmaster, digging the sharp, ivory spikes of his knee high boots into his steed’s flank. Behind him, his ten whores all stopped at once and upon them fell looks of lust and envy from the many scores of men and women who gathered about the knee-high grass in their droves, having been lured from the safety and comfort of their warm beds to witness this spectacle.

Halt, shouted The Tiny Tattooed Man, his voice carrying like a foul odour through the stillness of the night where, on a dusted cobblestone path, and pressed between two lines of fretted and dubious expressions, a starved and exhausted procession heaved and pulled on the ends of manila ropes which hauled enormous carriages that rocked back and forth, as if whatever nefarious magic or beastly horror were caged within, were set on making its escape.

Halt! shouted The Tattooed Man again.

And this time, the creaking of worn and splintered wood, and the shuffling and crumbling of dust and rock beneath leathered soles came to an absolute stop.

The ropes fell to the floor, breaking the tired and awkward silence and sending a mound of dust into the air, making the townsfolk all cower; covering their eyes and mouths, to shield themselves from the choking sand and rock.

And when the dust settled, The Ringmaster spoke.

Good evening, he said, lifting his top hat as he bowed; ever so slightly. My family and I, we have travelled a great many plain and our feet, they have suffered from great marks and pains, as heavy as the hunger in our bellies.

As he spoke, The Ringmaster worked his crowd, his congealing stare paying delicate address to the entire townsfolk, who now, in contrast to these devilish rogues, appeared without any colour whatsoever.

Their faces bore the same greyish tinge as their clothes and shoes as if the pleats in their trousers, shoelaces, and skin had been shaded with the same blunting pencil. And their town, not far off in the distance, looked as if it had been painted with a handful of crumbling charcoal; and it was badly drawn too. The roofs of the houses had no defined edges, appearing to smudge into what looked like lamp posts or delivery vans; and the streets were uneven as if they had been scaled by the hand of a child.

This did not disturb The Ringmaster.

We wish only to rest for some time, time enough for our spirits to catch up with our bodies. And in time enough, we shall be gone. And we do not ask for anything of which you are unwilling to give, for all that what we ask is what you already pay into our hands - your avid attention.

The townsfolk’s expressions were illegible, but this didn’t falter The Ringmaster, he had been whipped by far more apathetic audiences in the past. In fact, he thrived on their disconnection.

We have come a long way, he said, from the farthest ends of the Earth, and on our travels, we have seen many great and superfluous things - things that you would never believe to be true.

Still, there was little wonder in their eyes as if they knew what was coming next.

Magic, shouted The Ringmaster, throwing off his purple coat, fanning a set of flush cards in one hand whilst grooming his long triangular goatee to a curling point with his other.

But nothing still. The people didn’t react, not how he thought they would.

The Ringmaster clicked his fingers twice, calling for his cane. One of his whores dismounted her horse, kindly brushing its mane and kissing the side of its face before whispering, I love you. Please wait for me while I am gone.

Though she would only travel a foot or two, it felt like an eternity.

She was the most extravagant of all the whores; poised with elegance and beauty. Her name was Delilah and she was The Ringmaster’s favourite, his number one. She wore a long black silk skirt that was decorated with large blue jewels, shaped like all seeing eyes between the outstretching rays of golden sun drenched petals. Her feet were nary visible underneath, with barely an atom dividing the pleated hem from the beige gravel below. With her skirt, she wore an indigo velvet corset, decorated with twenty golden buttons that barely contained her enormous bosom and two silver flower-shaped mirrors that bloomed from both sides of her folded collar.

She was the most insatiable of all his whores and her beard was the fullest and most well-groomed. Delilah gave the cane to her master and stood by his side, eyeing the men in the crowd with a lustful veneer, running her long, slender fingers through her thick bushy beard, and threatening to lift her silk skirt with her other hand to expose her bare naked toes.

Excuse me.

A young woman stepped forwards, holding a sleeping child in her arms, draped in a dirty rag. Have you come across a doctor in your travels? she asked. Or have you one in your troupe?

She was as grey and lifeless as the rest, but unlike the others, who looked foreign and unaffected by The Ringmasters corralling, she had something different about her; a slight twitching of a nerve on her face, and a light, yet barely noticeable tremor in her bottom lip - hope.

We have brought you something better, said The Ringmaster.

What is it? asked the young woman, now rocking her child gently.

We have brought you The Sun of God, said The Ringmaster, half expecting applause.

What is that? she asked confused, thinking of it as some Asian delight. Is it a spice or some kind of fashion?

Why, The Sun of God is your saviour, my dear exclaimed The Ringmaster, his face up to the heavens and his arms shaped like a V.

A saviour of whom? she asked.

You, of course, and of your child. And of all your children he shouted, exultantly.

Save us from what?

From yourselves.

The young woman looked down at her sleeping child and then to her townsfolk who crept closer towards the warmth and shield of her valour, now as fixed as she was, on the brutish and unshapely looking man in flamboyant attire.

What have I done or am yet to do, she asked, which curses myself?

You have killed God’s only son, said The Ringmaster, lowering his head in a respectful grievance.

The monkey too lowered his head; as did the entire procession, making strange markings over their chests before lifting their heads once more.

I cannot speak for the whole town, said the young woman, but I can tell you that neither I nor my sick child, have laid as much as a hair on another living being; be it person or animal. There is a great deal of death in this town, more than any town should bear, but if it’s a killer that you are looking for, if this is what has brought you to our town, then I can tell right now, you will not find them here.

We wish only to rest our legs under the shade of this sickly tree. And maybe, if you do not mind, we could arrange our tents and, until our breaths have caught up, we could obligingly perform for your people; in doing what we do, our purpose and our promise.

This Sun of God, said the young woman, can he heal the sick? Does he bargain with death?

He does, said The Ringmaster smiling, pulling his whiskers to a curling point.

Where is he now? Can we see him?

He is all around you. He is everywhere, and he is anywhere too.

But can we see him? My son, he is sick. He is dying. He needs a doctor, but if this God can save him as you say, then please, you have to let him see my boy.

The young woman stepped out of the weeds and onto the cobblestone path. Standing just an inch from The Ringmaster, and beneath his venerable glare, she lifted the towel from her sleeping child’s face.

My dear God, said The Ringmaster, covering his mouth and swallowing a lump of bile. Put it back, he said, fanning his hands. Good lord, put the towel back. What in tarnation?

Please sir, my child needs medicine.

Madame, said The Ringmaster, covering his mouth and composing himself. Your child has long deceased. It needs not medicine, for medicine is only for the sick and dying. Your child, it would appear, is in need of a proper burial, and soon too, by the state of this decomposition.

But he is not dead. He still clings to life. It is the illness he bears that makes him look and act as if he were dead.

His illness my poor lady, is death. What a man or a boy looks or acts like, he most certainly is.

Delilah peered under the towel and beneath the cover of her beard, she scowled.

What is wrong with their faces? she asked, her nervous fingers pressed into the shoulder of her master, causing excite to stir at his loins.

The Ringmaster stared at the young woman, at her black and white complexion. He laid his eyes upon the soiled rag that bore the outline of a young child who had a face that only maggots and worms could admire, and he sighed heavily. He dared not peer again. Instead, he looked out through the crowd and drew his attention to the grey stillness that spilled from their eyes like blotches of ink on a poorly written note, watching in strange allure as an old man rubbed at his buggering left eye, only to draw a thick black smudge across one side of his face where his nose and mouth had been.

We shouldn’t have stopped here, said Delilah, whispering into her master’s ear. Maybe we should continue; find another town.

The Ringmaster stared at the town before them, and then behind him, at the long procession that trailed over two horizons. He studied their weary faces and though he knew they could march for a thousand more days, it was he himself who needed the rest. But it wasn’t his decision alone. He turned to face Gaia who sat undisturbed on her steed.

What say? his eyes said to hers.

Gaia looked long into the town, into the grey cavernous streets, and then leaned to her steed and whispered in its ear, gently caressing its mane. Her horse turned and walked towards the sickly tree.

If you will have us, said The Ringmaster to the townsfolk, we would love to stay for a while. And if you would be so kind he said, loud and confident, as to let us cure your town of this ungodly illness. It is my word. And it shall be done he shouted, hammering the silver tip of his cane into the ground causing a splinter in the earth and a tremor into the hearts of his procession, for they were old hands at the sight of his marvel.

As he turned to join Gaia beneath the sickly, old tree, Delilah reached for his hand, pulling herself closer so as to press her bearded lips against his thick bulbous neck. Take the mother and her dead child to my quarters, once they have been arranged. Feed her. Give her some alcohol. Loosen her spirit he said, turning from his favourite whore.

Delilah’s hand dropped like a wilted leaf. Though she wanted to scream and to curse vile obscenity, she composed herself, running her long, slender fingers over the soft, round mound of her beard, settling her nerves and vengeful appetite. And as The Ringmaster sat high on his steed, readied to speak, she took The Grieving Mother in her delicate embrace.

Your attention, he said.

There was a great kerfuffle as an order of shushing worked its way along the procession, sounding like the rustling of a hundred thousand trees.

Quiet, shouted The Tiny Tattooed Man.

The rustling continued.

I said shut up, or I’ll punch you, he shouted.

And the rustling ceased.

The Tiny Tattooed Man looked to his master and nodded.

Tonight, said The Ringmaster triumphant, pausing so that his echo travelled to the very last coloured member of his troupe. Tonight we celebrate, he said, for there shall be a funeral.

II

On the absolute edge of town, where one arm of a forking road trailed off into dense scrub, disappearing beneath the tangle of stabbing twigs and stinging petals, there stood what might have once been a magnificent Sycamore tree - a place maybe, where children would have met, and gleefully conspired against their mothers and fathers, or where lovers, as wards of its shade, might have imagined themselves with the courage to finally escape their persecution and disappear over the ridge together, behind the setting sun.

This tree might have told a thousand tales and been inscribed with the besotted initials of a thousand lovers, only to wet its thirsted roots on the salted tears of a thousand broken hearts. It might have heard a thousand promises to never again speak of a thousand secrets, and over a thousand years, it might have heard them spoken, a thousand-fold more. It might have lived for ten thousand years and were it on the absolute edge of any other town, it might even live for ten thousand more. But here, a thousand miles from anywhere at all, this once incredible Sycamore tree was a curser for a town with no name and no place on any map, a town besieged by a ravenous plague of death and atrophy.

Don’t crowd me, said The Ringmaster, buggered by the circle of bearded whores closing in around him, and by a chorus of pestering from a three-legged midget and The Octopus Brothers - four men conjoined at the elbows and buttocks. Each cursed with and against one another with such violent threat, as they sought to pitch in a desperate bid, for the opening and closing acts.

Beneath the sickly old tree, on the absolute edge of town, The Ringmaster sat in his favourite chair, sipping whiskey from a straw while his greasy tufts of balding hair were carefully combed and braided, and his fingernails painted, the same tone of green as his alligator skin boots.

If you’ll just give me two minutes, said The Three Legged Midget, and if you don’t think it’s the greatest act you’ve ever seen… he said pausing, putting his two hands into a deafened apology or defence.

Tomorrow, said The Ringmaster. I’m tired, it’s late, my feet hurt and my head feels like an old tea bag. We’re going with the show as we have practised, as it should be; at least for the first couple of performances. Let’s, you know… he said, gyring his index finger in quick circles, as if he were dialling an imaginary phone, let’s roll out any creases in the show before we start making any changes. We’ve been on the road for a great time. What’s say we get grounded first and find our feet? But I like your initiative. I like you get up and go. Now, he said angrily, get up and go.

My new act, Master, it’s the most magnificent yet. It involves elastic, fire, a hammer, and tapeworms. It could easily open the evening. I know… If you could just spare me two minutes I could…

Eeeeitttt, said The Ringmaster, showing the back of his hand.

But, Master, It has sparks and fire. It has show. It has pizazz.

Tomorrow.

But, Master…

Get outta here, shouted Rex, the towering giant, with coiled arms as long as an infant’s middle finger, and twisted skeletal hands, like a heron’s broken feet. He laid a firm boot into the backside of The Three Legged Midget, sending him cannonballing down the slight hill towards where the carriages stood, waiting to be unwrapped and unloaded.

Master, said Rex, pausing to lower his stare, admiring The Ringmaster’s painted nails and his thick bulbous knuckles, that on a whim could shatter a man’s jaw, or crack, even the most stubborn nut.

It’s rude to pry, said The Ringmaster, though he made no attempt to cover his painted fingers as a virgin might, her provocative knees.

Rex turned red and his little hands shook like jelly.

Master, he said, all the preparations have been made.

I have an itch, said The Ringmaster, in my middle back.

Rex balanced himself steadily on his left foot. He wasn’t a small man, he was a giant, so a task of this nature was no easy feat, but he was an old hand in the circus and capable of more than his size and strength would let on. As he stood like some gargantuan, muscled crane, he unslipped his right foot from its leather sole and raised it slowly, until his big toe was eyeing where he believed his master’s itch might be.

We have a problem on the stage, Master, a problem with the luminescence, said Rex, scratching deep into his master’s back.

What’s wrong with the Light?

There is none, he said.

That is a problem, said The Ringmaster.

It’s the pedal generator, Master. It seems a very important part of it might have been left behind in the last camp.

And what might that be?

The peddle, said Rex, wobbling his useless limbs against one another.

Well then, just fashion something together, said The Ringmaster, strangely understanding. It needn’t be intricate, just enough so that I dazzle. Surely there is something that you can set on fire.

Yes, Master, said Rex, hunching uncomfortably under the sprawl of leafless overhang from the sickly, old tree. The lady, master, she refuses to drink or to lessen the grip on the cadaver. I said ‘please’. She said ‘no’. I didn’t quite know then what else to do after that. I asked her, I said, ‘Are you sure?’ and she said that she was, and I was left with the thought that maybe she was right, in not letting go that is.

Is Delilah still with her?

She is, Master.

And how does she seem?

Difficult. She might not be so easy to tame this time.

All women can be tamed. You just need to feed them what hungers them the most? said The Ringmaster smugly, twisting the ends of his moustache into a curling and sharpened point.

What is that, Master? Rubies? Roses? Garter belts?

Validation, my gigantic friend. It is what we all crave, every man, woman and child, both grotesquely normal and wonderfully deformed; validation. There are only two types of people, and only two reasons why anyone does anything – either to show their father that they did it or to prove to their father that they didn’t need him; that they could do it by themselves. But both require his avid attention, he said, tucking firmly on the ends of his purple coat tails, shaking off the thin coat of dust that had settled on his lapels from the kicking of horses hooves.

By now, the camp had been well and truly set. What had, only hours before, been an enormous vacuous square, cut out of endless sprawl of brush and tangling weeds, was now a busied and colourful populous, with hundreds of tents being erected by just as many calloused hands. People of all sizes and colours, of all shapes and added appendages, danced and sang joyfully as they pounded thick metal spikes into the red dirt, with the sound of their hammers crashing onto bulbous iron heads, driving the rhythm of their boisterous chorus.

The heaviest carriages stood on the edges of the thick scrub, making an impenetrable wall around the encampment. Nothing could get in and nothing could get out. Inside that wall, were the barred cages of elephants and alligators, black bears, and wild; followed by row after row of hammocks and tents. The spaces between them were lit with small fires that were dug into the earth and surrounded by a circle of stones. They did little to address the darkness but were snug against the night’s bitter cold.

By the edge of the road, and guarded by machete-wielding madmen, there stood an enormous tent that was as tall as a wondrous gorge. And at the entrance to the tent, there hanged a man with no arms and legs, swinging back and forth on a rope that was tied around his waist. His eyes moved contrary to the swing of his body, and his inertia never slowed.

Standing at the centre of their camp was the gaunt and sickly, Sycamore tree, with its crooked limbs, twisting and forking like an old man’s spine, looking like a deathly villain as it hunched and lurched over The Ringmaster and his troupe which gathered below. Seated by its cancerous looking roots was Gaia, shuffling a host of coloured and devilish cards, as the thorny vine, which was tattooed from her one side of her face, down along her neck and into her bosom, moved like a slithering snake across her body, disappearing beneath her shoal as she read aloud - a tale of astral intrigue that spelled from the cards laid out neatly before her.

What do the stars say? asked The Ringmaster, now looking proudly at his camp. Is this what we were looking for?

They speak only of death, said Gaia. Is it what you had wished to hear?

You tell me, he said.

The universe she tells me, we are at the place where only dead things grow.

The Ringmaster smiled. Then we have arrived, he said, stepping up onto a small platform and readying himself to address the merriment of colour and choir of his people, with one hand reached around what looked like a crystal femur and the other, pressed neatly between the second and third buttons on his purple jacket, so that anything he should say, would be an oath sworn upon his own heart.

Wonderful work, my darlings and fabulous freaks, he said. You never cease to inspire and to whet my passion. You are all my children, my family, and my heart. And I love each and every one of you. Now, he said pausing to twist and curl his whiskers, I know we have come a long way; a great many mile. So far indeed, that for most of us, the only sight we can remember is the back of our brother’s and sister’s feet. And some of you may ask, he said. Where in the name of God are we? What is this town? Why does it not appear on any map? And why have we stopped here?

He let the drama of his questions settle like dust on their thoughts.

Let us not forget the meaning of life, he shouted, thrusting his cane into the dirt and puffing his chest in pompous flare.

To serve, roared the crowd before him.

To be purposeful… shouted one-half of the people.

Is to define one’s purpose, shouted the other.

We have been walking for so very long, said The Ringmaster, removing his hat and lowering his head to his feet in solemn salute. And we have lost some dear friends along the way.

The troupe all lowered their heads, etching out symbols across their hearts.

But I promised you salvation. I promised you a holy plain. And I said these things, he shouted, his voice carrying over the troupe, and into the prickly ears of the people lined up along the road watching in a leering address. Not to fool you, he continued. I said these things because I believed them to be true. I said them because I believe it is our purpose to bring the Message of Light throughout the lands. It is our purpose to be the bearers of salvation. And though it is my voice that carries the Light, remember my children, you are my many hands. And without you, I could carry this Light no further than my own echo. We are Light, shouted The Ringmaster.

And as such we are one, shouted the troupe in joyous celebration.

I promised you salvation, a long time ago. I promised you we would reach the greatest heights, that we would scale the largest mountains, and that we would find sanctity. I promised you prosperity. I promised you hope. I promised you all the wealth that you could fathom. I promised you a stage. I promised you applause. And I can tell you now, as I stand here, under the sprawl of this sickly tree, all that I can see is salvation. You, my children, are the givers of salvation. You shall not have, for it is only now that I can see that in fact, you are. Salvation is not yours. You are salvation, each and every one of you. You are golden. You are Light.

And as such, we are one shouted the troupe again in joyous prosper.

And this, he shouted, twirling like a top heavy ballerina, with his left hand held against his left breast, and his right, extending the crystal handle of his cane as far as his reach would allow. This will be…Our grandest and final act, he said, his pirouette finally coming to a stop with his cane pointing towards the greyish looking town not far from their encampment.

Sir, said The Tiny Tattooed Man, pulling on The Ringmaster’s coat tails. Master, sir, he said.

All accounted for? asked The Ringmaster.

All except for the girl, replied The Tiny Tattooed Man.

Always a problem, always the girl, said The Ringmaster, surly.

You want me to punch someone? asked The Tiny Tattooed Man.

What?

Or…if there’s anything else I…

No. What the hell is wrong with you? Rex!

The giant scurried to his master as quick as he could.

Yes Master, said the giant, with the merry of an unattended puppy.

Put one of the hounds on the girl’s scent.

Would it be best to send someone to scout for her master? We could send someone on horse. It would no doubt be more expeditious. I’m sure she couldn’t be too far behind, but even still, we passed many an unsavoury sight that as you know, would do no good for a small girl to be seeing.

Send a dog.

Yes, Master, said Rex, turning away quickly before his master’s kicking heel did just that for him.

The Ringmaster sighed heavy. He dusted his coat with the back of his hand until a cloud of dry rain, drizzled from beneath his heavy glare. Tomorrow, he said with a pause, looking noble once more with his left hand neatly tucked between the second and third buttons of his coat. Tomorrow, we shall perform for the first time. We shall bring salvation to these poor disparaged people. We shall bring warmth to their blood, colour to their skin, and Light to their souls. We shall save each and every one them; the living and the dead. Tomorrow. But tonight, he said, unscrewing the small cap from a bottle of distilled poison. Tonight we drink and we dance; we fight and we make love. Tonight we bury a dead child. We save its grey soul. We colour it with Light. Tonight there shall be a funeral, my children, and we shall celebrate, for a life has been lived, a story has been told. And isn’t that what life is about? Isn’t that what makes death such a grand affair? Tonight my delightful freaks, he shouted. Tonight we live.

As The Ringmaster spoke, beside him, Gaia sat cross-legged by the trunk of the tree, and with what she had carved out of a clump of its root; she wound together in tiny tight braids, what looked like a small arborous bullet.

Stepping down from his podium, The Ringmaster left his troupe to begin their celebrations. The stage was still being prepared with mechanics and physics minded men and women, piecing together a strange contraption that was wired to large bulbs that dangled from the stage, and to one large lens that was secured to the top of one of the carriages.

On the stage, many light hands pushed around many heavy objects, setting up tables and altars and incredible looking backdrops, all adorned with hundreds of coloured sigils. The Ringmaster walked proudly through his camp, towards his carriage with his little monkey running behind him, eyeing the comfortable dent and curve of his purple top hat.

Allow me to formally introduce myself, he said, entering the carriage.

The young woman sat on the edge of his bed, her decaying child still wrapped in blankets and held tightly in her arms. Sitting at the table, Delilah sat with a glass of whiskey in her hands, contemplating squashing a bug that had become caught in the wet ring beneath her glass. She looked at The Ringmaster with a contemptuous glare.

Delilah, said The Ringmaster, kneeling before her and gently running his hand along the trim of her wonderfully manicured beard. Would you give us a mere minute alone?

Alone? Why do you need to be alone with her?

My dear Delilah. Of all the whores that exist in this world, you know you are the only one that I love. You are my number one. You know it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t feel anything. You should know that. You are the only one. You are the only whore that matters. You know that, don’t you?

She did, but that didn’t mean it was of no comfort hearing it.

Now leave us alone, he said. Just a mere minute.

Delilah looked at the young woman in disgust.

If there is anything at all that I can do, rest assured, I will stop at nothing to do it, she said, standing staunchly in front of the young woman whose constant tears made it difficult to see the stern and obliging counsel she was receiving. You’re plain, she said, before storming out of the carriage.

Delilah, shouted The Ringmaster, his disheartened plea carrying with her out of the door. My apologies, my lady. We are an impassioned people, and Delilah… he said before pausing to kneel down before her. As you have noticed, she is very fond of her place in my troupe. And I do apologize if she or any of my family has caused you any fright or offence. We wish not to disturb you or your townsfolk.

Outside, shadowed about the flicker of gas lamps and crackling fires, scores of hands pulled on the ends of ropes, raising banners, flags and all sorts of balancing contraptions. They built platforms and stages and even a giant alter, made entirely of granite and gold. And all the while, they cheered, cursed and hurled insults and orders as they sang songs about Light and salvation.

And barely an inch from their heaving and hoeing, a young boy, having just escaped the tyranny of his father’s protection, wandered through the encampment alone.

The Young Boy had never seen colour before, not such as that which was painted on the clothes of the troupe in circular and swirling patterns, and even on the faces of many who looked more like grinning moons than they did actual people. He looked at his own hands, holding them out as if he were begging for spare change. They were the same shade of grey as everything else in his town - as the people and their clothes, as their houses and cars, as their scrapbooks and televisions, and as their lipsticks, lamp posts and even Light itself.

He then put his hands in his pockets, real casual like, and stepped out from behind the wheel where he had been spying. He stood there for a moment, expecting as usual, to be swept up by his father, or shooed away by his neighbours, teachers or garbage men, thinking of him as sick like all the rest.

He expected to be kicked or prodded – to be knocked about and bumped along. He expected to be found out and discovered – to be cursed about and then shouted and pointed at. He expected to be told to ‘go home’ and to be kicked in his rump and then told to ‘bugger off’ like some scabbed and starving dog.

He half expected flags to be raised and alarms to be sounded – for weapons to be drawn and examples to be made of him. He expected everything that