Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (24 page)

Durki clasped his hands behind his back, assumed a deep frown, and began pacing back and forth in front of the cabin. “This is a king’s man of war, Ponsonberry, not a pleasure ship! I
said
fifty lashes, and I
meant
fifty lashes! Now, strip that wretch to the bones, and be quick about it lest you find yourself touched by the cat!”

Durki stopped, turned, and held out his hands. “Captain Cruel, I would rather stand the lashes myself, than subject an innocent man to them.”

“You would, eh, Ponsonberry! Then order back the master at arms. It would never do to have a common seaman lay bare the back of a king’s officer.
I will swing the cat myself!”

A thumping came from the deck. “Have mercy, Durki, and still your mouth!”

Durki squatted next to one of the cabin ports. “Ah, Raster, you besotted freak. You are up then?”

“Of course I’m up, and with a head the size of the universe!”

Durki snorted. “You must pay the price for your ways, Raster.” He heard a scuffle from inside the cabin, then Raster speaking Pulsit’s name. “Raster, what is it?”

The freak’s face, eyes as red as the paint splashed on his skin, appeared in the porthole. “Come down quick, Durki. I think your master is dying.”

Durki and Raster sat on opposite sides of the table, while on the third bench, his face drawn and grey, Pulsit lay prone, covered with sailcloth up to his neck. His grizzled head rocked from side to side with the motion of the ship. Durki turned away and closed his eyes.
Amar looked down at the broken body of the great flyer Danto, then up at the trapeze, still swaying against the canvas of the big top. He looked one more time at Danto, then began climbing the ladder, ignoring the pain from his crippled left leg. “The crowd was told they’d see the backwards quadruple tonight, and if it takes my last breath, they will!”

“Durki, what are you mumbling about?” Raster gulped from his jug and slammed the container on the table.

Durki shrugged. “I was thinking. The deathwatch is an old story.”

‘‘Too depressing. I like stories with action, glitter, and pretty girls.” Raster belched.

“Aren’t you soaking up the sapwine a little early?”

Raster shrugged. “A scale from the dragon that bit me.” The freak cocked his head at Pulsit’s quiet form. “Your master, do you think he will be all right?”

Durki shook his head. “I don’t know. He is an old man.”

They gathered like vultures around the old man’s deathbed, rubbing their hands, smiling to each other in
secret, counting their inheritances before the body grew cold . . . ”
Durki reached for the jug, took a gulp, and replaced the container on the table. “You are right, Raster. This is too depressing. What would you like to talk about?”

Raster rubbed his chin and raised his eyebrows. “What do you think about the new ambassador to Momus—the one from the Tenth Quadrant?”

Durki shrugged. “I am a storyteller, Raster, not a newsteller. I do not follow politics.”

Raster laughed. “Neither am I a newsteller, but I take an interest in whether or not I will become a slave.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The ambassador—a Vorilian, lnak by name—is in Tarzak right now. He would get the Great Ring to vote away the defenders from the Ninth Quadrant and accept those from the Tenth.”

Durki rubbed his chin. “What do the defenders from the Ninth Quadrant defend us from?”

“Why, from the Tenth Quadrant, of course.”

Durki shrugged. “Then, if we were defended by the Tenth, we would be safe, wouldn’t we?”

Raster frowned, held up a finger, then dropped it. He shook his head. “Our statesman, Allenby, doesn’t see it that way. He thinks we must keep the Vorilians away from Momus. I agree.”

Durki waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s talk of other things, Raster. This holds no interest for me.”

“No interest?” Raster held out his hands, his eyebrows arched in wonder. “Things are happening that will change the courses of planets—of quadrants, or perhaps the entire galaxy! Your storyteller’s blood is thin indeed if it cannot draw inspiration from such events.”

“As I said, I am no newsteller.” Durki reached for the jug.

“You mean to say that the idea of a great war—perhaps one in space—is of no interest to a storyteller?”

Durki put down the jug, turned his face to the overhead and closed his eyes.
Tadja jetted to one side as the Vorilian glop fiend’s bolt sped past. The vapor trail from a passing ship obscured his vision as he tried to sight his weapon on the Vorilian
. . . Durki looked back at the jug, then shrugged. “Stories like that might interest some, but I don’t think you’ll find them among the better sorts of people.”

Raster frowned, then stabbed himself in his chest with his thumb. “
I
like stories like that!”

Durki nodded. “I rest my case. You see, Raster, most of the listeners we storytellers have at fires along the road, or in the squares of the large towns, don’t happen to be wine soaked, overmuscled, frustrated freaks.” Durki raised his eyebrows. “No offense.”

Raster grabbed the jug, stood and stomped to the cabin door. “I must go on deck.”

The door slammed behind the freak, and Durki turned toward Pulsit as his master began mumbling and moaning. “Pulsit?”

“Durki . . . is that you?” The old man’s voice was weak.

“Yes. Are you all right? How do you feel?”

Pulsit reached out a hand and grasped the front of Durki’s robe. “Did you see him? Where’s the body?”

“Him? See who?”

“Bloody Buckets. We fought all night.” Pulsit relaxed his grip and fell back onto the bench. “Ah, it was glorious!”

Durki stared.
“Humor him, doctor, otherwise the maniac will kill us all!”

“Did, uh, Mister Buckets fight well, Pulsit?”

The old man cackled. “Did he fight well? Look at me, you fool! Anyone who could put Captain John Fine on his back fights well!” Pulsit’s eyes rolled up, then the old man relaxed and fell asleep.

Durki shook his head.
“You lock me behind these doors, thou cowering knave in white! But, who is to judge the sane? Are you locking me away from the sane? Or, are you keeping me safe from all those out there? That is it, isn’t it? I am the last sane man in
the world—ha, ha, ha, ha, ha . . . ”

For the next few days, Pulsit raved, Raster swilled, and Durki wretched their collective way across the Sea of Baraboo until they came in sight of the continent of Midway. Actually, it was the
Queen of Sino
that came in sight of Midway, rather than her passengers, since Raster’s state of constant blindness relieved itself only for as long as it took to find more medicine. Pulsit, of course, lay on his bench in the cabin, traveling the bruised reaches of his mind, while Durki hung from the railing, praying for death. The continent of Midway was named in honor of the collection of sideshows that filled the hold of the lone shuttle stranded there in the disaster of the circus ship
Baraboo.
It was isolated from the rest of the planet Momus. Few ships came to its shores, which caused the inhabitants of the coastal village of Mbwebwe to gather on the beach as the
Queen
came into view. Since the original inhabitants of Midway were comprised of a troupe of Ubangi Savages who also did seconds as Wild Men Of Borneo, and another troupe of acrobatic midgets, it was a curious lot that stood upon the beach examining the
Queen.
After a time, Azongo, the village headman, came to the obvious conclusion. He looked down at Myte, the meter-tall village priest, and held out his arm toward the approaching ship. “It is obvious, Myte. That unfortunate vessel has been attacked by sea pirates. Look at its tatters of rope and sail, and the rotting bodies draped over railings and deck.”

In the cabin, Pulsit sat on his bench, peered through one of the front portholes, and also came to the obvious conclusions.
Cannibals!
His eyes went from the dark savages with their great shaggy heads, to the lighter-skinned midgets that stood beside them.
Giant cannibals!

Pulsit leaned against the cabin wall and held a hand against his forehead.
What am I doing here? My crew depends upon me—and that city! We haven’t delivered the medicine for that city . . .
city—why can’t I remember its name?
The old man’s hand dropped to his lap, he turned his head and looked out of the porthole. The inhabitants of Mbwebwe were moving closer to the water.
The cannibals are attacking, and my crew without a leader!
Pulsit weaved to his feet, pushed his way across the cabin, and picked up a paint-smeared plank leaning in the corner. He hefted it and swung it about his head.
As long as I have breath in my body and a blade in my hand, John Fine is not defeated. I’ll not have my crew garnished for a savage’s gullet!

Pulsit opened the cabin door, pulled himself up the four steps to the deck, then swooned against the roof of the cabin. “Mister Trueheart! Where be you, man? Call the hands on deck! Stand by to repel boarders!”

Raster pushed from his face the pile of rags and ropes he had covered himself with the night before, opened his eyes, and saw a gaunt visage standing over him shouting and swinging a bloody blade. His eyes opened wide, and he pushed himself back in fear. His mouth worked a silent scream as he saw the tangle of ropes on his legs and feet. “Snakes! Oh, merciful Momus, God of Ridicule, spare me!” Raster bounded off the deck, throwing the ropes aside, then ran to the railing and flung himself over the side.

“Mister Trueheart!” Pulsit staggered to the railing and watched Raster swim toward the shore. “Trueheart, you coward! Come back and stand your ground, man!” The bottom of the
Queen
grounded, knocking Pulsit off his feet.

As he pulled himself up, he looked over the railing to see the inhabitants of Mbwebwe wading toward the ship. He backed up against the cabin, then turned and ran to the other side of the ship.
More cannibals! Waves of them!
He saw Durki hung over the railing and swatted the apprentice across the buttocks with the plank. “Awake, there, crewman! Arm yourself!”

Durki moaned, opened his eyes and saw the golden beach and trees of the village. “Land! Dry, hard, solid land!” He smiled, pulled himself over the railing, and fell into the shallow water with a smack. Pulsit looked down to see Durki wading toward shore.

What is this? Do I command nothing but cowards? Do the gods test
my
courage with these things?
First one brown hand, then another and another grasped the railing. Pulsit smacked one with his plank, heard a curse, followed immediately by a splash. “Hah! Defend your heathen selves!” Pulsit ran up and down the railing, smacking hands with the plank and glorying in the curses and sounds of bodies falling into the drink. “If he need must, John Fine shall take on your entire cannibal nation!” For a moment, no new hands appeared on the railing, and Pulsit leaned over the side to see the last of the dark natives wading away from the
Queen.
The old man raised a fist toward the shore and shook it. “I am Captain John Fine, commander of the
Honor Bright!
I cannot be defeated! I say this to you: Send me
more
cannibals!”

He tossed his head back to laugh, then felt strong arms grasp him from behind. He turned his head to see dark faces and shaggy heads swarming over the deck.
I am captured!
The plank was taken from his hand, and he felt himself being moved to the other side of the ship, lifted over the railing, and lowered into waiting brown arms.
Still, I
am
John Fine!
“Hear me, you heathen devils!”

“I beg your pardon!” answered one.

“Do not trust your mouths when they water for this body! You shall choke on John Fine!” Pulsit laughed, then became quiet as a great darkness came over him. Those who carried him exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged and headed toward the beach.

Even though he eyed the food suspiciously and had developed the habit of jumping at the slightest sound, Pulsit appeared well enough by that evening to join his companions at Azongo’s table. Coppers were exchanged for the repast, and Durki felt blessed as he enjoyed the packed feeling of the first solid food he had been able to hold down for days. But, recalling his own screech of a voice, he listened with envy as Azongo conversed in rich resonant tones. As a pause in the conversation came, Durki nodded toward the headman. “I would give much to have been born with a voice such as yours, Azongo.”

The headman laughed, exposing a glare of teeth filed to needle points. “So would I, storyteller. But, I was not born with this sound. It came only after long practice for my wild man act.”

Durki looked around the table, then turned back to Azongo. “Since we are finished eating, I would lay a few coppers in your palm to see your act.”

Raster waved his hand and shook his head. “I’ve seen several wild man acts, and they are good sleeping aids, but nothing for an evening’s entertainment. They couldn’t scare a child.”

Azongo raised his eyebrows. “And, freak, would you care to wager your coppers on that?”

“No, but I’ll stake a jug of sapwine against a jug of this cobit brew of yours.” Raster held up his cup.

Azongo rubbed his chin, then nodded. “Done.” He reached forward and extinguished the oil lamp in the center of the table, leaving only a single lamp on the wall to illuminate the room. He stood, turned his back on his dinner guests, and removed his robe. “Hhuurrraaaaggh!” Azongo leaped about in a crouch, his body scarred and tattooed in bright, fantastic patterns, his face contorted such that his eyes and filed teeth seemed larger than life. In the flickering half-light of the lamp, there was little doubt that the creature before them was a primitive, unreasoning machine of blood lust, coiled and ready to strike. Azongo leaped over the low table and landed next to Raster with his hands held forward, claws extended. “Aarrrgggh!”

Raster backed up against the adobe wall of the room. “Very well, Azongo! Enough!”