The Palace of Laughter

by Jon Berkeley

  “This big lummox is pickin’ on that boy, Ted,” said the landlady. The sight of Ted, who was an even bigger lummox and with a meat cleaver to boot, was enough for Genghis. He turned on his heel and strode around the side of the inn to the patch of trodden and rutted earth where the carts and tractors of the inn’s patrons were tethered.

  The landlady opened her mouth to speak to Miles, but before she could utter a word he had scrambled to his feet and was running after Genghis, desperately hoping that Tangerine would manage to wriggle unnoticed from the big man’s pocket, as he had from his own. Genghis was climbing aboard a battered blue van as Miles turned the corner of the Surly Hen. He saw the words “THE PALACE OF LAUGHTER” painted in silver letters on the side, as the engine coughed into life and the van made a sharp turn out of the lot. With no thought but to stay close to Tangerine, Miles ran after the van, but before he could reach it the battered vehicle bounced into the road and roared away up the hill, leaving a cloud of dust and the trace of a smell that might have been rotten bananas in its wake.

  Miles stood for a minute, bruised and panting, staring after Genghis’s van as it disappeared over the brow of the hill. He felt a strange tug, as though something deep inside him had been hooked by an invisible fishing line and was being pulled away along the dusty road. He closed his eyes and tried to fix a picture of Tangerine in his mind. “Sit tight,” he said silently to the bear. “I’ll come and get you.” He opened his eyes again and suddenly remembered Little.

  She was no longer to be seen at the fountain, or anywhere else in the square. He hoped she had had the sense to hide herself at the first sight of Genghis, and he looked around the trampled field for any sign of her. A forest of dark conifers began at the edge of the field and ran along the right-hand side of the road that the van had taken. Shading his eyes, Miles spotted Little among the nearest trees. She was standing half hidden behind the trunk of a tall fir, but she was not looking in his direction. She was staring at something a little farther into the shadows. He followed her gaze and saw to his surprise that someone seemed to have hung a circus poster well inside the wood, where it was barely visible in the mossy gloom. He could just make out the dull orange glow of the tiger’s stripes, but he could not see the boy with the whip, or the flaming hoop.

  In the shadows of the trees the tiger appeared to be moving. Miles walked over to where Little stood, to get a closer look. Without turning, she put her finger to her lips. He could see the tiger more clearly now, and there was no longer any doubt that he was moving. He was walking slowly toward them, his enormous paws making barely a sound on the carpet of pine needles. There was no poster after all, just a large and magnificent Bengal tiger, and this time Miles knew for sure that he was not dreaming.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SUNFLOWER AND STORMCLOUD

  Miles Wednesday, bruised, bemused and bearless, held his breath as the tiger approached them in the stillness of the afternoon. The twittering birds had fallen silent, and the sound of cows lowing on the hillside had ceased. He could see the tiger more clearly now, and he recognized the pattern of markings on his face, and the deep gaze of the great beast’s amber eyes. At ten paces the tiger stopped. Little glanced at Miles, as though waiting for him to speak, but what do you say to a Bengal tiger who is staring at you from springing distance, and with no bars between you?

  The tiger spoke first. “What’s the matter, tub boy?” he rumbled. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “No,” said Miles. “Genghis got my Tangerine.”

  The tiger seemed to prick up his ears at this, but all he said was, “I’ve never had much time for riddles.”

  “It’s not a riddle,” said Miles. “I have a stuffed bear called Tangerine, and a fat man called Genghis has stolen him and driven away in his van.” He pointed in the direction that Genghis had taken. “I have to get him back.”

  “A stuffed bear?” said the tiger. “You’re wasting my time, tub boy. I could be finding myself a tasty meal right now.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come here in the first place,” said Miles, rather shortly. He had many questions he wanted to ask the tiger, but at the moment the bear-napping of Tangerine was uppermost on his mind. With every passing minute Genghis was getting farther away, with Tangerine trapped in the pocket of his smelly overcoat, but how could he explain the importance of this to the tiger?

  The tiger paced slowly toward him until his eyes were just inches away. His tiger smell was musty and strong. The black markings over his eyes gave his face a slightly quizzical expression, but the eyes themselves were steady and clear. His nostrils flared slightly as he took in Miles’s smell.

  “Maybe so,” he said. “And maybe not.” He turned to look at Little.

  “Who’s your friend?” he said, still speaking to Miles.

  “This is Little,” said Miles.

  “Little,” said the tiger. “That’s apt, I suppose. There’s barely enough of her to go on a cracker.”

  “The kitchens are just over there.” said Little, ignoring the tiger’s comment and pointing through the trees to the back of the inn. “I’m sure you could find something to eat, if we could distract the cook for a minute. You’ll need all your strength and speed to catch up with Genghis.”

  The tiger stepped back a pace and looked Little up and down.

  “So you can speak,” he said. “I prefer my meat on the hoof, little girl. And besides, what makes you think I would go haring over the countryside chasing a fat man with a stuffed bear?”

  “I was hoping you could carry us on your back,” said Little. “We’re not heavy, and you are strong.”

  “Do I look like a donkey to you, little girl?”

  “Not at all,” said Little. “You look much faster, and even if a donkey could catch up with Genghis I don’t think he would scare him much.”

  The tiger gave a deep rumbling laugh that seemed to come all the way from his hungry belly. “I suppose a little run might be enjoyable,” he said, “and it so happens I was headed in that direction anyway. As for you, you may sit on my back if that’s what you wish; I will not even notice you are there. But you should understand that I am not a beast of burden, and staying on will be your own concern. It doesn’t matter to me if you fall off and are lost.”

  The tiger turned to face the distant mountains. Miles was just a shade taller than him, although he would have had to stand on his toes to see over him. He lifted Little from the ground and helped her onto the tiger’s back, where she settled just behind his powerful shoulders. Then he grabbed a handful of the tiger’s short pelt and hauled himself up behind her. Before he could seat himself, the tiger started off through the thin trees at the edge of the wood, and Miles had to hold on tight until he could swing his leg over and sit up properly. He had no doubt the tiger meant what he said about leaving him behind if he fell off.

  If you have ever sat on the back of a fully grown Bengal tiger, you will have noticed that a tiger’s body has a leaner shape than that of a horse. Whereas some horses, and especially the kind of ponies you get to ride on your holidays, can be distinctly barrel shaped around the middle, a tiger is basically a long slender slab of pure muscle, which makes gripping a tiger with the knees a little easier, especially if you are a first-time tiger rider.

  Miles had no experience of riding either animal, and for the first few minutes he concentrated hard on keeping his balance with nothing for his hands to hold on to. When he became confident enough to look back over his shoulder, the hamlet of Hay and the Surly Hen had disappeared from view, and there was no sign of the horde of policemen and out-of-work zookeepers that he had half expected to see pursuing them along the road.

  The tiger’s stride lengthened and he began to run. Miles gripped tighter with his knees, but at each bound he felt himself lift in the air, the wind whistling past his ears. He was sure that he would part company from the tiger at any moment and find himself somersaulting through the air. Little, by contrast, sat easily at the tiger’s
shoulders, looking about her with delight as the sunlight flashed through the passing trees. Miles held her around the waist, as though some of her confidence might flow into him.

  The tiger kept to the edge of the woods, a little way in from the road so as to keep out of sight. They had reached the top of the hill over which Genghis’s van had disappeared and descended into the valley below. Between the trees they could see a small village in the valley floor, with a tall gray spire rising from a jumble of red roofs. Neatly tended fields climbed gently up the slopes of the surrounding hills. Far off to their left there was a glint of sunlight on the railway, which curved gently away and ran out of sight into the hazy distance.

  They came to a break in the trees, where a stone bridge crossed the stream that wound along the edge of the wood, and here they stopped. Miles’s legs felt stiff as he slid off the tiger’s back, but the tiger showed no sign of tiredness. A bend in the stream kept them out of sight of the town, and there was nobody about. They drank from the clear water that ran over the smooth brown rocks of the riverbed, then Miles and Little flopped down in the lush grass of the stream bank while the tiger waded out into the water and stood there as still as a statue. For two or three minutes he did not move a muscle, then suddenly he gave a short lunge and ducked his head into the water, coming up a moment later with a large trout flapping between his teeth, while sparkling drops of water shivered on his whiskers like dew on a spider’s web. Little laughed, and the sun came out from behind a cloud. Everything seemed so new to her, and Miles wondered how she must feel to be so far from the world she knew.

  “What’s it like, where you come from?” he asked her.

  “It’s bright,” said Little, “and cold, and very beautiful.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Of course.” She picked a flower from the grass and twirled it in her fingers. “It’s very strange down here. Especially people.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They do funny things.” She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him intently with her sky-blue eyes. “Like you. You are helping me to find the Palace of Laughter, even though you lost your home and the Great Cortado wants you dead because of me. And you know that when I find Silverpoint I’ll be going home.”

  Miles felt an unexpected lump in his throat. He did not want to think about the moment when Little would leave. “I have to find Tangerine,” he said.

  “That’s not the only reason,” said Little. “You tried to save me when I fell. Then you rescued me from the circus, and from The Null. All that happened before you lost Tangerine. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Miles looked at her. There was only curiosity in her eyes. “That’s what friends do,” he said. “Silverpoint’s your friend, and you’re going to find him, aren’t you?”

  Little looked puzzled. “Silverpoint is a longfeather and a Storm Angel,” she said. “I am just a Song Angel.”

  “But you’re trying to rescue him,” persisted Miles.

  Her gaze dropped to the flower that she twirled between her fingers. “I can’t return home without Silverpoint,” she said. “I led him into a trap, and now I am bound to find him.”

  The tiger stepped back onto the riverbank, having filled his belly with fresh fish, and shook himself, showering Miles and Little with cold water. He turned to look at them. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I thought you were just a couple of rabbits there in the grass.”

  Little tucked the flower carefully into her pocket and put her finger to her lips. “Something’s coming,” she said.

  The tiger’s rounded ears swiveled in the direction of the road. He turned without a word and padded along the bank until he was out of sight under the stone bridge, where he lay down in the shade. Miles and Little followed him quickly, as the sound of hooves and cart wheels from the road above grew louder. Over the noise of the approaching cart they could hear the sound of laughter. The wheels of the cart rumbled overhead, and Miles saw a small object spinning through the air to land with a plunk in the water of the stream.

  When they were sure the cart had gone, the tiger stood and stretched himself. “You’d better climb aboard if you’re coming,” he said. “We have some catching up to do.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Miles. He was curious to see what it was that had been thrown from the cart. He pulled off his boots and rolled his trousers to the knee. The stream was cold and the stones slippery with weed. He waded to the spot where he had seen the small object hit the water, and found it almost immediately, lodged between two rounded stones. It was a small square bottle with a green label, like the ones the landlady of the Surly Hen had been dispensing. He fished it out and read aloud: “Dr. Tau-Tau’s Restorative Tonic. Restores the natural humor and lifts sagging spirits. Just two spoonfuls of this miracle remedy will bring the laughter back into your life. Do not operate heavy machinery or perform surgery for six hours after dosage.”

  “The tiger is leaving,” said the tiger. “Are you finished prospecting for rubbish?” Little was already perched behind his shoulders. Miles nodded, and slipped the bottle thoughtfully into his pocket. He pulled his socks and boots back on over his wet feet, and climbed onto the tiger’s back.

  The forest through which they had been traveling ended at the stream. On the far bank was a field of sunflowers. They stretched into the distance like a tall green army, their yellow-fringed heads heavy with seeds and drooping slightly. Beyond the fields the mountains rose steeply, their lower slopes terraced with vineyards. The sunflower fields, still lit with the late-afternoon sun, showed a dazzling yellow against the purplish black rain clouds that hung low over the mountain.

  “The railway turns away to the north here, but the road looks like it continues straight over the mountain,” said Miles.

  “Of what concern is the railway, tub boy? I understood your were pursuing a fat man in a van.”

  “We are” said Miles. “We’re also looking for a place called the Palace of Laughter. The train goes there. But it looks like the van might be going there too.”

  “Then the obvious thing would be to take the shorter route, which would appear to be over the mountain,” said the tiger.

  Miles and Little nibbled on sunflower seeds that they managed to snatch as they passed through the tall flowers with their thick hairy stems. In the distance they saw a lone farmer, staring in puzzlement at the sight of two children’s heads traveling at some speed, just above the level of the sunflowers. They waved at him, and he blessed himself and turned quickly away. The sunflowers seemed to go on forever, but eventually the ground began to rise, and they emerged into the lower terraces of the vineyards. To their left they could see the road beginning to loop from side to side as it climbed the steep slopes toward the gathering storm. The tiger made better speed now, following the paths of packed earth at the edges of the vineyards. When he reached the next terrace he paused for a moment, and Miles could feel he was gathering himself to spring. Little took hold of his pelt, and Miles held her around the waist, and the tiger jumped, soaring through the air to land with his huge paws sinking slightly into the loose earth. Miles, who had slid back almost onto the tiger’s tail, pulled himself forward again as the tiger took off toward the next level.

  The tiger leaped from terrace to terrace, and Miles learned to grip tightly with his knees and lean forward at the moment of the jump. Little laughed with delight as they sped through the bushy vines. Miles had never heard anything quite like this laugh. It seemed to be made of sunlight and sweet air, all the things he had never felt in Pinchbucket House, or in the leaden laughter of the tired people of Larde. There was something else there too, a feeling that he imagined might be the thrill of flying. He looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see how high they were. The town was already a distant jumble threaded on a silver stream, where the dark green of the forest met the gold of the sunflower fields.

  Ahead of them the vineyards were coming to an end, and the rocky mountain, dotted with scru
bby vegetation and isolated pines, rose into the dark stormclouds. As they left the last neat rows of young vines, fat drops of rain began to fall, and in a few moments they were riding through a heavy downpour that soaked them to the skin. The rain battered the earth with a hissing roar and stung their faces, but the tiger’s pace did not slacken. He ran on, bounding from rock to rock and forging through wild shrubs as though the storm were a figment of their imagination.

  They could not see far through the curtains of rain, but presently the ground leveled off and they began to descend. Before long Miles realized they were climbing again, and he guessed that the moutain rose in a series of peaks, each one higher than the last.

  The sky began to lift at last, and the rain eased off. A cold breeze made them shiver in their wet clothing. The tiger stopped, and they found themselves on the highest ridge of the mountain, looking down the other side. A little way down the far slope an almost circular lake lay in a hollow like a giant cauldron, and beyond that a hilly plain stretched away into the darkness. Miles felt strangely like a small giant, perched on the mountain ridge with the sun setting behind him, and before him a thousand possible futures waiting for him in the mountain’s shadow.