by Ben Galley
‘I suppose breakfast wouldn’t hurt,’ he relented. ‘But if it gets too strange, then we leave, do we all agree?’
‘I agree,’ Lurker replied. ‘Let’s see where this goes.’
And so it was decided. The three of them followed silently in Yara’s wake as she led them a merry path back towards the main tent.
Tables and benches had been stacked in rows on the sand and filled with folk. There must have been two score of them there, and as they entered, the busy conversations weakened to a curious whisper, before shuffling off their mortal coil altogether. Merion was already beginning to regret his decision when Yara strode forward, hands held up high.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ she announced. ‘We have visitors.’
Merion felt a little heat rising in his cheeks. Lurker was already trying to shuffle backwards. Yara turned and bade them come forward. ‘Welcome them as our own,’ she said.
An awkward smile spread across Merion’s lips. Manners, manners, manners, he told himself over and over. The crowd nodded and murmured a greeting before going back to their bowls and chatter. Yara led them to a few spare seats and then went to fetch them some food. Whatever it was, it smelled tantalisingly good. Merion’s stomach rumbled all the more. He patted it under the table, ordering it to be quiet.
At the other end of the table sat a man and a woman. The man had a long mop of dark hair on his head, and a face that was slowly being swallowed by a beard and a pair of tangled eyebrows. He was brawny, and the arms poking out from his shirt were a dark nut-brown and covered in thick black hair. A pair of thin spectacles balanced on his nose.
Merion nodded to him, and then went to do the same to the woman. Somehow he got stuck halfway, frozen in shock. The woman’s face and arms were also swamped with dark hair, and her beard—Merion had to look twice—yes, her beard could have vied with the man’s for bragging rights. The young Hark’s eyes were unable to tear themselves away. Twice that morning he had been betrayed by his body.
The man began to chuckle, and the woman winked knowingly. ‘Never had breakfast with a bearded lady, it seems,’ he chatted conversationally. His accent was thick and garbled, Prussian perhaps.
‘Er …’ Merion stammered. Bearded ladies were not your usual sight in London’s upper echelons. He wondered what his old etiquette tutors would have made of this occasion.
‘It’s alright, young man,’ the woman told him. ‘Stare all you like. Want to pull it, see if it’s real?’ She smiled and twirled some of the thick black hair of her chin around her finger.
Merion did. Merion really did, but something inside him told that would have been severely impolite. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and extended a hand instead. ‘It looks real enough,’ he said. ‘Merion Harlequin.’
Both the woman and man shook it, and Merion smiled as he tried to ignore the very odd feeling of hairy palms gracing his.
‘Sheen and Shan Dolmer. Brother and sister. Not husband and wife,’ said the man, Sheen.
‘That would be a little too strange,’ Shan tittered. Merion smiled politely. Yes, because that would be the step too far, he said to himself.
‘Lilain Rennevie.’
‘Lurker,’ came the other introductions. Lurker stared straight down at the worn table-top, picking his grubby nails, while Lilain looked on as if the woman’s bushy beard were invisible.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sheen said. ‘Will you be staying with us long?’
‘Oh, no,’ Merion shook his head. ‘We’re just here for breakfast. At Yara’s request.’
The Dolmers swapped glances, as if the boy had just accidentally told a joke.
‘What?’ he asked.
Sheen twirled his spoon like a conductor warming up. ‘We came just for breakfast three years ago now. Haven’t left since,’ he said, with a smile.
Merion looked confused. ‘Are you not allowed?’
Shan tittered again. ‘Oh, no. We can leave whenever we want. What my brother is saying is that once you’ve tasted what we do here, you won’t want to.’
Merion flicked a glance at his aunt. She seemed to be making a habit of shrugging this morning. That was usually Merion’s answer.
‘Speaking of tasting, what is for breakfast?’ she asked, craning to peer into their bowls.
It was at that moment that Yara returned, cradling three steaming bowls in her arms. ‘Beans, with bacon too,’ she announced. ‘I hope you like that?’
Lurker grabbed his bowl so quickly he almost spilt it. If there was one thing in this world the prospector truly loved, it was a bowl of beans. And it had been far too long since he’d had some.
*
Merion’s head was so full of names and titles he was beginning to get a headache.
‘Meet Jackabo Boston, our resident fire-eater and more.’
‘This is Hoarse Hannifer, who’ll tell you your greatest fears before you even knew them.’
‘Itch Magrey, whose skin can tolerate more punishment than you can imagine.’
‘This is Cabele the Cat, acrobat and rope-walker.’
‘Nelle Neams, tamer of all sorts and our beast-keeper.’
‘Spetzig, a fellow from the old country, our clown, who can juggle anything you put in front of him.’
‘Mr Jacque, Francian and gentleman pickpocket.’
‘Kasfel, queen of the clowns and yet she never smiles.’
‘And Devan Ford, our best strongman—don’t want to challenge him to an arm-wrestle any time soon!’
‘Follust, a man of the Empire like you, who never forgets a thing.’
‘This is Rahan, from deepest darkest Indus, who can speak to cats big and small.’
‘Hashna, his young assistant.’
‘Miss Mien of Cathay, who has bones of jelly, it seems.’
‘Big Jud Jepson, who is the big man of the circus, the most obese fellow this side of the Red Palace.’
‘And I believe you already know the Dolmers?’
And my, were they a strange bunch. They were friendly of course, and interested in the newcomers, but odd to the core. The sort of odd only a career in a circus can spawn. The sort of odd that lingers just beneath the surface, flinching from the daylight. The sort of odd that only comes out at night, when the lanterns are fierce and the crowds are roaring.
They smiled and they chatted for a few minutes with each one, their eyes sneaking over their bright clothes and strange luggage, their tattoos and obvious talents; the muscled, corded arms of Devan; or the monstrousness of Big Jud, and the way he sweated buckets just talking. They were peculiar and yet they were alive in ways Merion could not quite yet fathom. Each talked differently, Each looked far-flung and different, as if their individuality had been painstakingly and intricately carved, each quality analysed and exaggerated.
The circus folk grinned the widest when talking about the circus, or how long they had known Yara, or the places they had seen. They painted Merion such a vivid picture he was almost exhausted by it. It was like trying to read ten books in an hour. By the end of it he felt dizzy.
Lilain and Lurker seemed happy with it all. Lurker was even gifted a pouch of tobacco by Jackabo, the tall and muscular fire-eater. The prospector packed a pipe in the blink of an eye, and spent a few minutes sharing it with the man, something Merion had never seen. Jackabo had blown smoke rings, and Merion had flicked them apart.
Merion smiled and shook their hands, receiving more than a few charcoal or grease smears in the process. There were plenty of others that they did not meet, and even though they nodded and waved, they did not pause to chat or learn names. Merion got the distinct impression they were being introduced to the core of the circus, its inner circle.
By the time they had spiralled around the main tent several times, and shaken far too many hands than Merion liked to think about, it was several hours past noon, and the circus was quickly vanishing before their eyes.
‘Our time is nearly at an end here,’ Yara said, as she kicked dust, absent
ly strolling beside Merion, half a dozen paces behind Lurker and Lilain.
‘Then I guess ours is too.’ He felt a little unease growing in his chest, though for whatever reason, he hadn’t the faintest clue.
‘Where are you headed, might I ask?’
Merion told the truth. ‘We’re headed east, hopefully to Boston or New York to find passage back to London,’ he explained.
‘Going home, I take it?’ Yara licked her teeth again.
The young Hark nodded. ‘That’s right, back to my father’s house. Where I belong.’
‘Your father waits for you there?’
Merion mulled over that for a moment. ‘In his own way, I suppose he does,’ he replied, in a low voice.
‘My home is also over the sea, where the borders of the Prussian Kingdom meet those of the Rosiyan Empire.’
‘So you’re even further away than I am,’ Merion replied. It was boyish logic, but true nonetheless.
‘That I am, Master Harlequin,’ Yara said, and she gazed off into the distance, narrowing her piercing green eyes. ‘But I am making my way back slowly. Town by town, we are heading in the right direction. Many of us want to see the shores of our homes again– or in my case, the mountains, where the only way to catch a rabbit is with a dagger.’ Yara flicked her hand and there was a flash of steel as a dagger appeared between her fingers. Merion had to laugh. She winked at him. ‘That is how I learnt,’ she said, and with another flash of her hands, the dagger was gone.
‘So it would appear as though we are both headed east, and for the Iron Ocean,’ Yara affirmed, after a few paces in silence. It was of course a statement of considerable depth, not just idle conversation. Yara looked down at him, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘You should come with us, travel with us.’
‘I …’ Merion began, torn between success and the worry of the morning.
Yara raised her voice so the others could hear.
‘You, your aunt, and your friend. Lurker … Lilain, what do you say?’
Lurker and Lilain stopped and turned, right at the entrance of the circus.
‘We travel east together. You can journey with us, eat with us, be a part of our family.’
Yara’s words rattled out like bullets from a Gatling. She was clearly excited at the prospect, but Merion felt his unease grow. They had barely spent a day with these people, and for most of it, Merion had been tied to a chair, with a knife in his face. He bit his lip as Yara searched his eyes. A few more of the circus folk had gathered around, hearing Yara’s invitation. He looked around, trying to escape her emerald stare.
‘Aunt Lilain?’
‘I can’t speak for you, Merion, but I do know it would beat walking alone.’
Then to the prospector: ‘Lurker?’
Lurker sniffed. ‘To put it plainly, they don’t seem like bad folk.’
Yara chuckled. ‘Why thank you,’ she said.
Merion was still undecided. He could not shake off that wariness. Could he simply ignore it? Learn to live with it? The circus itself was incredible, alluring in every way possible, but it was the ache of his wrists that bothered him, and the other side of this keen, smiling woman that he had witnessed in the gloom of the candlelight. And of course, there was that inbuilt inability of any Empire-born to accept hospitality at the risk of being rude. That, for some reason, was easier to cling onto than his misgivings about Yara and her intentions.
‘I think,’ he began, but he trailed off. He could not form words around what he truly thought. ‘We’ll have to decline. Thank you, of course, but we wouldn’t want to take up space, or get in the way. We have to be on our way.’
Yara’s face fell as Lurker and Lilain swapped confused glances. A few sighs came from around them.
The circus master began to nod, looking more than a little disappointed. ‘I understand,’ Yara said, extending a hand. Merion half-expected a knife to be balanced in it, but it was empty, and waiting. Merion reached out to shake it.
At first he did not even notice. He was too mesmerised by the glint in Yara’s eye to feel the strangeness in the handshake. It was the twitch of her little finger that brought him crashing back to the moment. Merion looked down as he folded his own little finger between their hands, and followed suit. A strange smile spread across his face, fighting with his deep confusion. His mouth dropped open, but no words came out. He was experiencing one of those rare times in his life, which he believed was called speechlessness.
‘What colour is blood?’ Yara asked.
Merion could only summon a whisper. ‘There are many shades …’
There was a round of applause from around them, piling on the confusion.
Yara held her arms wide. ‘Now do you see why we wanted you to stay? Why we were so wary of you, Merion?’
The young Hark began to nod, letting it all slide into place. It made sense to him now. Not entirely, of course, but he felt the unease fading from his chest, like the sun chasing the night away. ‘You’re bloodrushers,’ he said, barely above a whisper.
Yara nodded, stepping close to whisper back. ‘Most of us are, yes. We’ve even got a couple of letters.’
‘Did you say letters?’ Lilain stepped forward with a look on her face Merion had never seen before.
‘Yes indeed,’ Yara said, smiling.
Lilain lifted her chin. ‘Then you can have one more, for the time being,’ she said, smiling right back.
Yara clasped Lilain’s hand with both of hers. ‘Excellent! Now, we must be going. There are plenty more towns out there that will gawp and shed their coin. And the road is a better place for stories,’ she told them. The folk about them scampered off to do her bidding. She was so effortless in her authority, Merion was secretly impressed.
‘Let us see if we can find you something to do, Master Harlequin,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
*
Bit by bit, the circus was broken down into its parts, until it could be packed into wagons and carts or carried on backs. It was incredible, the way it all folded, collapsed, and coiled up. The folk went about their work with quick hands, honed by practice. It took no time at all. Even Merion found it easy, helping to fold the big tent with the others.
Barely an hour had passed between handshake and horseback, or to be precise, ponyback. The young Hark had been assigned a pony to ride, and to lead it when it tired. It was a pony which normally entertained the children, giving rides and pinching carrots from pockets.
Merion swiftly realised he had no charm with animals, especially the equine kind: Gorm, his piebald Shohari pony, had not listened to a single command; Jake the magpie had never given him a kind look; and now this one, this little white mare, had swiftly decided that she was in charge, and that Merion was just luggage. At least she wasn’t wandering off course, but followed alongside the head wagon, Yara’s wagon, where she and Itch, the one with the tortured skin, sat comfortably, though jogged by every rut and pebble.
Merion watched the baking country roll by, listening to the Lurker and Lilain’s idle conversation behind him. They were trying to work out which shade each performer put in their belly. Merion could just about hear them over the rattle of the wheels and the clip-clop of the pony, whom he had just that minute decided to name Berk.
‘Jackabo has to drink the wisp shade. Those smoke rings weren’t exactly normal now, were they?’ Lilain was whispering.
Lurker just muttered something, a low rumble.
‘Or phoenix, but that’s a hard shade to come by. A char, or salamander would be more likely, and have the same effect, maybe a blend.
‘What about that Itch Magrey fellow?’ whispered Lurker. Merion barely caught it.
‘Toad.’
‘Not dragon?’
‘An even tougher shade to find.’
‘Maybe it’s easier for them, movin’ about. You should go see what the letters have got.’
‘Big Jud has to be a feathercoat. The penguin shade. Has to be.’
‘And you
know what? I reckon those Dolmer twins had too much of the wolf or monkey shade. Back when they was little. Heard of that happenin’ before.’
‘You may just be right there. I’m impressed, John Hobble.’
‘Thank ’ee, Ma’am,’ grunted Lurker, tipping his hat, careful not to tip it too far lest a sleeping faerie roll out.
Merion smiled and shook his head. Those two were a strange pair when it was just the two of them, blabbering away, assuming that nobody was listening in. Odd peas in an odder pod. The boy turned his ears to Itch and Yara’s easy conversation, as they sat sprawled on the driver’s bench of the lead wagon. Itch wore a bright blue waistcoat over a yellow shirt and red neckerchief. He positively glowed in the bright sunlight. He wore a cracked black leather hat low over his bristled, chiselled face. His tongue wagged back and forth in that thick western accent of his.
Merion found himself reaching up to explore his own cheeks. His fingers found only bare skin and fine hairs—no more than fluff. Merion inwardly grumbled to himself. There seemed to be some connection between respect and authority and facial hair out in the wild west, and Merion was bored of being looked at like a child.
What child takes a life, never mind several? Merion asked himself, yet again. No point in painting the shit a shade of gold to dress it up. The innocence that comes with childhood had been blasted away when he’d driven a bullet deep into Castor Serped’s chest, when his finger had twitched on the trigger of the Mistress. Hell, it was lost the moment he sucked down that first drop of blood.
The problem resided in the fact he didn’t feel the slightest bit like a child any more. In fact, he felt far from it. Change had come and played puppet master, tugging his strings this way and that. After his last night in Fell Falls, it was nigh impossible to deny it. Whether he wanted to or not, Merion had both mentally and literally put a match to his childhood, and stepped back to watch it burn. Yet here he was, still being called ‘boy’ or ‘son’ by others, and it turned Merion’s lip to scorn. He hoped this circus would dare to be different. There was a polite cough, and Merion blinked.