Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (23 page)

The freak pulled up next to the two storytellers and looked down upon them as he belched out a great cloud of sapwine fumes. Durki waved his arms and backed off. Raster smiled, exposing teeth that might more properly be called “slabs.” “I apologize, Pulsit, for making you wait.” He sloshed the jug in his right hand. “It took me considerable time to convince Fungarat the merchant to leave his bed and sell me this medicine.” Raster raised an eyebrow and leaned toward Durki. “To keep off the sea’s chill.”

Pulsit held up a hand. “No apology is necessary, Raster. Which boat is yours?” Pulsit waved his hand in the direction of the many sleek sailing vessels belonging to the fishers of Sina. Raster squinted his bleary eyes in the indicated direction, then shook his head. He took a step toward the edge of the wharf, bent over and pointed, jug still in hand. “There.” Pulsit and Durki looked down and observed the craft Raster indicated. The single-masted wooden craft wallowed next to the pilings amongst the garbage discarded by the other ships. If it had ever been painted, the paint was gone. Tatters of ropes hung from mast and railings, while coils and tangles of rope littered the few places on the deck not occupied with piles of empty brown jugs. On the boat’s stern, lettered in fading yellow paint, was her name,
Queen of Sina.

Durki took in the sight and nodded. “You spoke the truth, Pulsit. It will not be suicide; it will be murder!”

Raster jumped from the wharf onto the
Queen’s
deck, and the two storytellers held their breaths while the small boat rocked under the force of the freak’s landing. Raster kept his feet and walked forward to the tiny cabin to store his medicine. Pulsit stood and placed a hand on Durki’s shoulder. “You will not join me in my adventure, then?”

“I am only an apprentice storyteller, Pulsit. It would take the great magician Fyx, himself, to survive a voyage in that leaking tub.”

Pulsit dropped his hand. “Very well. Good-bye, Durki, and I hope you can find another master before too long.” The master storyteller went to a ladder and began climbing down to the boat.

Durki leaned over the edge of the wharf. “Another master? Pulsit, where am I to find a master with this voice of mine? Come back, you old fool! The fish will eat you, you know that?”

Pulsit reached the level of the
Queen of Sina
and jumped over the side, stumbled and fell on the deck. He stood and arranged his robe. Raster stumbled out of the cabin and began pulling on a rope. A once-white sail, now decorated in black and grey-green mildew, commenced its halting journey to the top of the mast. Pulsit waved, then turned and went into the cabin. Still holding the rope, Raster looked up at Durki and threw a few coppers up on the wharf. “Release the lines, will you?”

“You would make me an accomplice to murder?” Durki snorted, stooped over and picked up the coppers. After he had stuffed them into his purse, he went to the pilings fore and aft, lifted the frayed rope ends and let them splash into the water. As the sail reached the top of the mast, its triangle filled with a gentle breeze and began drawing the boat away from the wharf. Durki looked up at the clear sky, muttered either an oath or a prayer, then scampered down the ladder and jumped onto the deck of the
Queen of Sina.

Raster secured the mast line and weaved over to where Durki kept a wistful eye on the shrinking houses of Sina. “If you are coming, Durki, it will cost you fifty coppers, the same as your master.”

Durki turned and glowered at the freak. “You get my coppers, Raster, when I reach my destination alive!”

Raster shrugged. “Fair enough.” The freak went back to secure the tiller.

Durki looked back toward Sina, sickeningly confident that his fifty coppers were as safe as if they were on loan to a cashier from Tarzak.

That night, the Town of Sina long gone from view, the
Queen of Sina
pitched and plowed through the dark, shrieking outrages of a summer storm at sea. Durki, his face a delicate hue of yellow-green, turned from the tiny glassed-in porthole and watched Raster take a gulp from a jug. The three adventurers sat upon built-in benches surrounding a rough plank table that occupied most of the cabin. A fishoil lamp swung and sputtered above the table, emitting an evil smell. Raster belched, and Durki’s shade changed to green-yellow. Durki pointed aft with a shaking finger. “Raster . . . who is steering this misbegotten thing?”

“Steering?” Raster scratched his head, then shrugged. “I know not, Durki.” Raster pointed at Pulsit, Durki, and himself, in turn. “One, two, three. We are all here; then no one should be steering.”

The apprentice storyteller plunked his elbows on the table and gently lowered his face into his hands. “Tell me, oh great man of the sea, what is to keep us from swamping or piling up on some rocks?”

Raster shook his head. “It is a good question, Durki.”

The freak smiled and held out his hands. “But, I have never been one for intellectual talk—”

“By the crossed eyes of the Jumbo!” Durki lowered his hands. “Raster, why aren’t
you
out there steering?”

Raster grinned and slapped the table top, causing everything upon it, including Durki’s elbows, to leap in the air a hand’s breadth. “Hah! By my coppers, that’s one I can answer! I would get wet.”

“Wet?
Wet!”

Pulsit placed a gentle hand upon Durki’s shoulder. “Calm yourself. I believe Raster has secured the tiller. This fine ship can steer itself, you see?”

“See?”

Pulsit nodded and held out his other hand toward Raster. “Our captain says we are days away from any land or rocks—”

“Days?” Durki grabbed his mouth with both hands, swung his feet over his bench plank and rushed through the cabin door, out onto the deck. Raster stood, reached out a long arm, and pulled the cabin door shut. He seated himself, hefted his jug and took a long pull.

Pulsit stretched his arms, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back against the cabin wall. “Ah, my captain, I can feel my storyteller’s blood stirring already. This will be a fine adventure.” He brought his hands down and cocked his head. “Listen!” A long, low moan could be heard. “Listen to it wail. Is it a sea dragon? The ghosts of a stricken ship?”

Raster lowered his jug and pointed an ear in the direction of the sound. “It’s Durki. He’s got the shipslops.”

Pulsit sighed. “Of course, Raster, of course. But the mournfulness of it—doesn’t it stoke up your imagination?”

Raster took another pull from his own brand of fuel, lowered the jug and listened to the apprentice retching, cursing, and wailing at the wind. The freak nodded. “Now that you point it out, Pulsit, it does sound . . . well, the way I always thought of the slave souls sounding.”

Pulsit raised his brows. “Slave souls?”

Raster shook his head. “Only a myth of the fishers in these parts. The slave souls were victims the sorcerer pirate Bloody Buckets enchanted, then strapped to his mainmast to keep watch.”

Pulsit rubbed his hands as Durki gave out with another moan. “Bloody Buckets! Excellent!” A dreamy look came into the storyteller’s eyes. He spread his arms. “The tormented souls of Bloody Bucket’s victims howled a warning, that wind and storm driven night, as the . . . ” Pulsit lowered his hands and looked at Raster. “What was the ship’s name?”

“Ship?”

“Bloody Bucket’s ship.”

Raster wrinkled up his face in confusion. “I told you, Pulsit; it’s only a myth.”

“I know, but I am a storyteller. I must let my imagination run free. Here we can take myth, coat it with belief, and make a story—no,
live
a story!” Pulsit reached out and picked up Raster’s jug and took a gulp. He replaced the jug, shook his head and held up a finger. “The ship.”

Raster warmed to the task and rubbed his hands together. “The
Black Tide
is his ship; the foulest most evil barge upon the water.”

“A great name.” Durki issued another moan. “Captain! Captain Buckets! What does the watch say?” Pulsit nodded toward Raster. “You shall be Bloody Buckets.”

Raster grinned. “Then, mate, call me ‘Bloody.’ I lay bare the guts of any swab what calls me ‘Buckets.’ ” Raster took another pull from his jug as Durki howled again. The jug dropped to the table as Raster held his hand to his ear. “Avast! Mate, avast there!”

Pulsit finished another gulp at the jug. “Aye, Bloody, what be it?”

Raster waved his hand above his head. “The wretches up there signal us of an approaching prize. Call out the hands!”

“Aye, Bloody.” Pulsit pushed open a porthole glass and shouted. “All hands on deck! Bloody has need of your evil hands and steel blades.” Above the port, a scream, then a whimper evidenced that Durki had not yet been washed overboard. “The crew is assembled, Bloody.”

Raster glared at the wall. “Aye, and a scurvy lot they are too.” The freak looked around the cabin, and pulled loose two narrow planks that served as trim between the wall and overhead. He handed one to Pulsit. “Your blade, mate.”

Pulsit stood and swung the plank around his head. “It shall be always in your evil service, Bloody.”

Raster swung his own plank, tried to stand, but staggered back against the wall. “Avast, ye swabs! On the horizon sails a fat merchantman. Helmsman, aim the
Black Tide
down her gullet, and you line monkeys—up top! Stay the mainsheets, matten down the batch covers and mizzle the fizzenmast! Har! There shall be rapine, loot, and killing for all before the sun sets—” Raster stabbed a thumb into his own chest. “Or my name ain’t Bloody Buckets.”

They both dropped down on the benches and refueled on sapwine. After an impressive pull, Raster placed the jug on the table. “What now?”

Pulsit nodded. “The other ship—what shall we call it?”

Raster rubbed his chin. “Should it be a special name?”

“Yes. The
Black Tide
is evil. To fight evil, we must have good. The name of the merchantman must reflect good.”

Raster nodded. “The
Honor Bright,
carrying a cargo of . . . ” His bleary eyes fell upon his jug. “Medicine to ease the sufferings of a stricken city.”

Pulsit clapped his hands and missed. “Excellent, and I shall captain the
Honor Bright.
Captain John Fine is my name.”

Raster weaved to his feet, shielded his eyes from an imaginary sun with one hand and pointed with another. “Captain Fine! Captain Fine! Abaft the bort peam, there!”

“Aye, Mister Trueheart? What is it?”

“Captain, bearing down on us is a pirate ship.” Raster fell back against the wall and held his hand to his neck. “The
Black Tide!”

Pulsit stood next to Raster and placed an arm around his huge shoulders. A hint of a smile played on the storyteller’s lips. “Have courage, Mister Trueheart. Our ship is fast, and our crew is the finest to be found in any port.”

“But, Captain, it is Bloody Buckets!” Durki issued a drawn-out howl. “Listen! Hear his ghost watch!” The sound diminished to a moan, then to a whimper.

Pulsit nodded gravely. “The poor souls. But stiffen your spine, Mister, else we shall fail and a city will die.”

Raster pushed himself away from the wall, held his plank before him and nodded. “Aye, Captain. I am all right now.”

Pulsit looked at his own plank and turned to Raster. “We must have blood. What do you have?”

Raster turned to a locker next to the cabin door, stooped and opened it. With both hands he emptied the locker of odd bits of line, empty brown jugs, a half-bolt of sailcloth, paint-caked brushes, and finally a large closed bucket of paint. “Here it is. I must use this to mark my trapbuoys.”

“What color is it?”

Raster opened the wooden top, and stood out of the way. The paint was bright scarlet. “And, there is your blood.”

Pulsit closed his eyes and held out his hands. “Although the
Honor Bright
was swift, the
Black Tide
quickly closed the distance, driven by Bloody Bucket’s sorcery. Grappling hooks flew from the pirate ship, and in moments, the two ships were bound together. Bloody’s crew swarmed over the side.” Pulsit dipped his plank into the paint and jumped up on one of the benches. “Defend yourself, Bloody!”

Raster dipped his plank and mounted the bench on the opposite side of the table. “Hah, Captain Fine! I’ll have yer soul strapped to my mizzenmast, or me name ain’t Bloody Buckets!” The freak lunged at the storyteller, slapping his arm with the plank. “First blood!”

Pulsit diverted the next blow, but Raster’s onslaught drove the storyteller to the door of the cabin. As he narrowly avoided a killing blow, Pulsit drove in and poked Raster in the stomach. “Hah, Bloody! Take that!”

Raster picked up the paint and sloshed it down his front.

“Curses, Fine! Ye have marked me, that’s true. But, I am Bloody Buckets, with the strength of ten!”

“Then, up with your blade, pirate, and have at it!” Pulsit swung, knocking the bucket across the cabin, splattering them both, as well as the cabin, with paint. As Raster stepped into a large puddle of paint, he slipped and came crashing down on the deck. Pulsit leaped to the fallen freak’s side, lifted his plank, and brought it down next to Raster’s neck in a mock beheading. “And, die, Bloody Buckets! Die!” Pulsit stood and looked in the direction of the overhead. “And Captain Fine, wounded and bleeding, stood atop the deck of the
Honor Bright,
his victory sweet on his tongue, while the flesh of the evil pirate grew cold.” Pulsit listened and could hear nothing but the creaks of the ship, the shrieks of the wind and the snores of Raster. “And, at last, poor souls, you are free!” The storyteller backed up against a wall, slid down, and passed out.

Durki opened the cabin door, stepped inside and saw both his master and the fisher on the deck, soaked in red. More red covered the walls, table and overhead. “Whoops!” Durki covered his mouth and staggered back on deck. In moments the moans of the slave souls once more stole across the waters.

The next morning, the waves of the night before calmed to gentle swells, Durki pushed himself up from the railing and placed his hands gently against his aching ribs. He thought upon it for a moment, then concluded that his stomach had finally given in to its fate. He looked around the deck, found a canvas bucket attached to a rope, then picked it up and drew some sea water. He splashed it over his head, rubbed his face and dried it in the gentle wind coming from the northwest. “Perhaps,” he said to the fingernail of new sun coming over the horizon, “perhaps this will not be so bad after all.” He turned and walked forward of the cabin, coming to a halt at the ship’s prow. The
Queen of Sina
dipped into the gentle swells ever so slightly, and Durki was delighted at the lack of response from his bowels. “An adventure will do much to fuel my own storyteller’s imagination. I now understand torment.”