The Circus Infinitus - Genesis Infinitus

by Ethan Somerville

  “No. It was just a story to explain the bandages. What’s beneath these is far stranger.”

  Willkie had to admit he was intrigued. He was torn between returning to the tiny, but warm apartment he shared with his family, and accompanying the bizarre character. Like Icarus had said – what did he have to lose? Until recently he had enjoyed a life of adventure. “Will you show me what you really look like?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the Hell – alright. You only live once – and in my case, not for much longer!” He laughed and started coughing again. This time Icarus had to hold onto him to keep him from falling. When he finished, there were tears in his eyes. “It really is getting worse,” he whispered, not wanting anyone else to hear his pain. “I don’t want to die. Whatever you’ve got – I hope to Christ it works!”

  Icarus paused before speaking. “Unfortunately, Christ won’t have a hand in this. I must warn you, if you’re a religious soul, don’t come with me.”

  Willkie coughed again. “I knew there’d be a catch.” He sighed. “But it always seemed like a big joke to me – getting this disease before I even turned nineteen while me Mum’s still hale and hearty – and still servicing men well into her forties!”

  “If you want to thumb your nose at God, this is the chance.”

  Willkie did consider backing out of the deal. His Mum might have been a semi-retired burlesque dancer and part-time prostitute, and his brothers local pickpockets and thieves, but they all attended Church every Sunday. Willkie had stopped going, pretending he was too ill, when in reality he had lost his faith. But it seemed this strange professor was asking him to cross a line into darkness. Did he value his life that much? That he was prepared to dance with the devil? As though in response to his churning thoughts, the ever-present tickle in the back of his throat got too much, and he started coughing again. It was difficult for him to draw a proper breath in between, and each successive bout made him weaker. “Then we’d better get going right now,” he wheezed, “because I reckon I’ll need a lie-down soon!”

  Icarus took his arm and led him away down the street. They had a ways to go, but the Professor helped him whenever he felt too weak to continue, almost carrying him at times. Willkie wondered if his Mum would be worried about him, out so late. Perhaps he should have told her where he was going first…

  Icarus eventually guided the exhausted Ed Willkie down into his basement. The sick man immediately rejoiced at the warmth and stumbled over to the fireplace to thaw his frozen hands. He didn’t even notice all the pipes and weird contraptions until after he’d warmed up, and the Professor was connecting cables to some sort of enormous tank-like thing with windows recessed into its sides.

  Willkie rose unsteadily to his feet. “What the Hell is that?” he exclaimed. “It looks like a giant coffin! Surely … yer not goin’ t’ put me in there?”

  “That’s where the Magick happens.” Because of his bandages, Willkie couldn’t tell whether he was joking or serious. “I have heated the water somewhat – too many complaints.”

  Willkie crossed to the monstrous thing and peered into one of the windows. He saw only darkness. “There’s water in there? What else?”

  The Professor threw a switch, and a soft hum started, slowly building in intensity. “Nothing else. Another thing I must mention – after the change you might feel a need for … something. It is a desire you will need to discover on your own – I can’t help you with it.”

  “Like a craving?”

  “Yes, but you won’t know what for unless you actively seek it out. It and only it is what will regenerate you afterwards.”

  Willkie wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, but then another fit of coughing seized him, brought about by the warm, smoky air. “I’ll … deal with it … afterwards,” he croaked.

  “Right then. Off with your clothes and onto the platform. It’s time to begin.”

  As the Professor hauled the grille out from inside the tank, positioning it above the water, Willkie shakily removed his clothing. The long walk here and worn him out, and he could feel the icy fingers of death clutching at him. He knew if he didn’t do something soon, he would shortly be bedridden, only surviving a few more days at the most. It’s now or never. Icarus helped him climb up onto the grate and locked his wrists and ankles in. “Hey – you said you were going to show me what you looked like under all those bandages!”

  “Alright.” Icarus removed his hat and unwrapped the dirty rags from around his face. “As you can see … I’ve lost far more body parts than the average leper.” He gave a humourless laugh.

  “Christ Almighty!” Willkie exclaimed. “You’re like a machine!”

  “Yes.” Icarus turned to the lever that would release the grille, dropping it back into the water. The capacitors had almost reached full power. Then he glanced across at the thin, pale creature on the grate, all his ribs protruding, jutting hip-bones like the jagged edges of a volcano, and a great hollow where his stomach should have been. He was at the edge of death, just like Tim Dobbs and Ethel had been. He had no other choice. But will he trust you? asked Icarus’s increasing sense of paranoia. Tim and Tom had proven their loyalty, but would Ethel and this fellow be so stalwart in their devotion? What if, one day in the future, they inadvertently betrayed him?

  Icarus couldn’t afford to take any more chances – not after his encounter with the Immaterial imps. He hurried back to Willkie and inscribed a rune of obedience on his forehead. It meant nothing now, but when the electricity started flowing into him, it would etch his orders into his soul forever.

  “What the Hell was that?” gasped Willkie over the screech of the machines.

  But the capacitors were fully charged, and the generator was screaming. “Take a deep breath!” Icarus yelled.

  Willkie sucked in a desperate gulp that felt like it was full of knives. Then he was plunged into the warm, dark liquid. Icarus slammed down the lid, then yanked another lever, sending the full charge into the machine. He peered through the thick glass windows in excitement, watching the electricity jump and surge inside. Willkie bucked and writhed in his bonds, his mouth open in a soundless scream. Then Icarus felt the power take hold, freezing Willkie’s spirit, suspending him forever at the point between life and death.

  Icarus saw the effect of his spell take hold as a bright flash of light exploded above the young man’s forehead. With his enhanced senses, Icarus could tell that it worked, although Willkie had no idea. A split-second later the flashes stopped, and the machines began shutting down. It was over. Icarus removed the lid, spun the wheels, and drew the soaked Willkie from his watery grave.

  Like the others, Willkie was spitting out water and swearing. He cursed Icarus for a full minute before realising that he wasn’t coughing. In fact his throat and lungs felt perfectly clear. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to draw a proper breath, but he did it now, sucking the warm, smoky air into his lungs like it was ambrosia.

  “I can breathe,” he gasped. “I can breathe!”

  Icarus stared curiously at him. He didn’t appear to be degenerating like the others. “Yes, but you don’t need to do that any more.”

  “I don’t? But I like it! I like being able to fill my lungs! This air is wonderful!”

  Interesting, Icarus thought as he began releasing Willkie’s limbs from their clamps. “Perhaps air is what you need.”

  “Plain old air?” Willkie exclaimed as he scrambled down from the platform. He no longer felt weak or sick. In fact he wanted to dance and run through the streets whooping at the top of his miraculously healed lungs. “I don’t believe it! But what was that thing you did above my forehead?” He clapped a hand to his head. “It really hurt!”

  “Insurance.”

  Willkie frowned – he wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. But what choice did he have? The mysterious professor had brought him back from the brink of death. He had never felt so good before in his life. “I take it you didn’t help m
e back for no reason. You need me for something, don’t you?”

  “Clever boy – I want you to be my assistant. My original three assistants are up north in Sheffield, working with a friend of mine on building a mobile theatre – a circus. But it can’t go anywhere until all the equipment here is finished. I could do it all on my own, but it would take too long. That’s why I’d like you to help me. Unless you have something more important to get back to.”

  What did Willkie have to go back to? His illness had prevented him from working. He hadn’t even been able to join his brothers in their various shoplifting and thieving adventures. He took another deep, wonderful breath. “No, but I would like to see my Mum – she’s probably wondering where I’ve got to.”

  “It’s a bit late now – you can return tomorrow. But first let me show you around…”

  Willkie did return to his mother’s tiny apartment the next day to explain that he’d found someone who could help him and give him a job. She was very pleased for him, but kept asking him questions he couldn’t answer. He tried to explain about the mysterious Professor who had lowered him into a tank of water and filled him with electricity, but the words refused to come. He felt like a door had slammed inside his mind, preventing the explanation from escaping. Struggling against it simply gave him a headache.

  “I … I can’t tell you,” he finally managed, and wondered if the barrier had something to do with Icarus’s mysterious “insurance”.

  “You are looking much better,” his mother remarked, “but you smell funny. Where did you sleep last night?”

  “Down in a basement, in front of a big warm fire. It was in-” Again his voice locked up on him. Damn! Why didn’t the Professor trust him?

  “Old May said she saw you walk off with that strange little man who beat up all four members of Dickson’s Gang. She said he was a leper.”

  “Yes,” At least he could agree with that. But when he tried to give her his name – Professor Abbacus – he couldn’t. Finally he took another breath. “He told me not to tell anyone about him. He’s working on something really big, and doesn’t want anyone to steal his ideas. Please understand, Mum.”

  “Well, it sounds highly suspicious to me. But if he has given you some medicine to make you better, then I suppose that’s good enough.”

  Willkie gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks Mum.”

  Mary Willkie had been a beautiful dancer in her youth; tall, with masses of thick red hair and numerous voluptuous curves. She had been able to kick her legs right over her head and perform the splits on stage. Her natural dexterity still helped her in her current profession, although the wrinkles were starting to take their toll. Her customers were disappearing, and she was considering taking up Nick the Butcher’s offer of marriage. At least she had a fellow who wanted to make an honest woman out of her, not like some of the other baggages she knew.

  Thus Mary had some time on her hands, and she wandered into St Anne’s chapel, the church where she religiously attended Father Flanagan’s services every Sunday. At this time of day the Father was waiting in the confessional for someone to confess. She had no new sins … at least none that she wasn’t already atoning for … but she wanted to talk. She was concerned about her son’s seemingly miraculous recovery.

  “Do you want to confess?” the priest asked kindly.

  “Father, I’m worried about my son. You know my little Eddie – ‘e ‘as the consumption, and until yesterday I feared ‘e wasn’t much longer for this world. But last night something very strange ‘appened to ‘im.” She explained how Dickson Gang had been defeated by one small fellow who had claimed to be a leper. “He took my Ed away with ‘im, and when ‘e came back this mornin’ he was all better – completely cured. No cough, no weakness, nothin’. But ‘e couldn’t tell me what ‘appened to ‘im. It was like a miracle, but … I know I shouldn’t question a miracle, but I can’t help but feel a bit … concerned.”

  “It does sound strange,” the Father admitted, “but the Lord works in mysterious ways. Perhaps this strange leper is one of his agents, and he has decided to help your son. You should be pleased, not worried.”

  “Yes, of course – thank you Father. That’s a lot of me mind. I’m sorry I ever questioned it.” She left, her concerns allayed.

  It had been Father Flanagan’s intention to completely placate Mary Willkie. He, on the other hand, was very worried about her story. He was from a very old school, and any so-called ‘miracles’ occurring in his parish had to be investigated. He began by sending a message to his superior, then he searched for everyone who had glimpsed the mysterious ‘leper ‘that had defeated the Dickson Gang. His gentle, easygoing manner enabled him to get as much information out of people as possible, but unfortunately, that wasn’t much. The man had worn bandages around his head and a broad-brimmed hat. No-one had actually seen his face – save for Herb Dickson, the leader of the bullies.

  It took Father Flanagan a bit more effort on his part to weasel the information out of Dickson, but eventually the cold-hearted thug relented, and told him that the leper had had a glowing red eye that looked like a gateway to hell. Flanagan knew the man wasn’t lying to him – when he turned to full force of his holy will on someone, they found it impossible to lie. But a glowing red eye? That was very unusual.

  “Anything else?” the priest insisted.

  “Nothin’ else about the way he looked, Father. But he was very fast and strong – inhumanly strong.”

  Just because he managed to put an idiot like you on your backside? Flanagan wondered, but kept his vitriol to himself and supplied another bland, non-threatening smile. “How so, my son?”

  “When he hit me with his fist, it felt like a steel hammer in my guts.” Herb lifted his shirt to show the priest a big black bruise, still nasty-looking after a week.

  Flanagan had to admit – that was impressive. There was definitely more to this leper than met the eye.

  After his session with Herb Dickson, Father Flanagan returned to his church to find a letter waiting for him. It seemed the bishop wanted a word with him!

  Thus the small incident in the East End slowly worked its way up the chains of command within the Catholic Church, eventually reaching the ears of the Stigmata’s chief thaumaturgical advisor, the Arcanus Christophe Sauvage. Still in England on long-term assignment, he spent a large proportion of his day in the IntelliGent’s special library. He was slowly reading his way through every book inside, and had almost reached the protected section. So far the volumes had been relatively ordinary, containing nothing that wasn’t already in the Vatican library. He hoped the restricted area would be more promising. Perhaps the fabled Noble Grimoire lay within, containing instructions on how to contact the Anti-God Himself. That was something his superiors did not possess. Yet.

  Arcanus was probably the only person who had ever gained access to the Gent’s secret book repository without completely bearing his mind. Oh, the Gent had ravaged his thoughts with those foul brain-tentacles of his, but he had only read what Christophe wanted him to. The Arcanus had learned many years earlier how to compartmentalise his mind, sealing sections he wasn’t using off so they couldn’t be reached.

  The Gent thought he knew Christophe inside and out, but truthfully he had no idea. Arcanus had even managed to hide his true appearance from the Gent, not through mundane Magick, which would have been immediately detected as soon as he’d walked into the place, but through an artifact blessed by the Pope himself. He wore it around his neck in plain sight, where most people thought it no more than an interesting amulet.

  Christophe Sauvage resembled a tall, handsome nobleman of Provencal origin, with shoulder-length black hair and golden-brown skin. But his appearance wasn’t even skin-deep – beneath the Pope’s glamour stooped a man even older than the fabled Icarus. However he maintained his existence through the Elixir of Life, which could only be manufactured within in the Holy Grail.

  But the Elixir was a double-edged sword. I
t enabled one to live forever, but only for those perfectly pure of heart did it restore youth. Because of his almost insatiable thirst for knowledge, Christophe had done some evil things during his life, and now he resembled a very old, old man, possessing all the aches and pains that accompanied great age. But it was his hunger for information that kept him going.

  Christophe finished a tome on ancient Eastern Magick and slid it back into the shelf. He remained standing there facing the rack of books, listening. Behind him the IntelliGent was discussing something with his three demon lackeys. Because he trusted Christophe, he didn’t care what he overheard. Thus Christophe knew that Da Vinci’s apprentice Icarus had been discovered alive and well in England. He also knew that Icarus was in possession of the famed Da Vinci Codex – one of the most powerful Magickal grimoires of all time.

  Christophe wanted that book for the Vatican library. Of course he’d hand it over after he’d copied it for himself, but they didn’t need to know that. The secrets it must contain, among them another road to immortality. What toll had it taken on Icarus? Did he resemble an ancient, wizened old man wracked with arthritis? Was that why he wrapped himself in bandages? From the conversation behind him, he realised this wasn’t the case.

  It seemed Icarus was very quick and strong, able to best four burly thugs in hand-to-hand combat. According to the demons, he had taken a consumptive young man back to his mysterious, as-yet-undiscovered lair, and cured him…

  Christophe remembered the letter he had skimmed just this morning, describing that very incident, only containing a few more tidbits added by Father Flanagan. So, the ‘miracle worker’ was none other than Da Vinci’s apprentice, even more powerful than Arcanus had first thought! And he had returned to London!

  The time had come to track him down once and for all. The Gent and his three idiot imps couldn’t seem to do it, so he would have to lend his centuries of knowledge. He turned from the shelf and crossed the room, entering the heated discussion.