The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus (6 page)

“After you,” said Mr. Bacchus, with a smile and a bow.

Sneering, Bentham, followed by the rest of the Theatre of Tears, swept up the gangplank onto the ship.

“Up plank!” yelled Hent, triumphantly. “Cast off!”

The Doctor and his associates were too eager to reach Bathsheba to notice the ship was now moving away from the quay, and turning into the estuary. His howl of wrath, however, when he reached the effigy, and realized he had been deceived, was hideous, and he stabbed at it again until pieces of fur littered the tide. But by now it was all too late. The ship had already reached the mouth of the Dee and was in the grip of the Arctic currents. Even when it was well on its way, however, the Doctor’s voice could still be heard, cursing with axiom and syllogism alike.

“The sea is salt,” said Mr. Bacchus, half to himself. “And full of fish. The good Doctor wanted his audience swimming in tears….”

Presently, even the Doctor’s voice faded, and in Parkgate there was only the sound of the tide lapping against the sloping harbour wall. The Doctor’s black caravan still stood on the quayside, however, with the giant armadillo asleep in a ball beside it. Mr. Bacchus tapped its hairy shell gently with his stick, and a small shining eye appeared.

“Excuse me, beast,” said Mr. Bacchus. “But the good Doctor has left the continent for a spell.”

“Oh?” said the armadillo. “Where?”

“He has gone North,” replied Mr. Bacchus.

“Good,” said the armadillo contentedly. “I need a long sleep.” And he rolled back into a ball again.

Later that year, the people of Parkgate brought milk and shrimps for the armadillo, whom they called Piers. And Hent’s ship did not return on the April tides, but remained sailing around the Arctic for fear that the warmer clime might melt the cargo, and bear them to the ocean bed.

And thus, Mr. Bacchus’ Travelling Circus left the silting port with the armadillo on the quay, and the black sail disappearing over the horizon into the endless midnight of the Arctic, and set off again along the road that lead to Asia the Deep, to Cathay, and so, at last, to Xanadu, of which the poet had dreamed.

This is another story about Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and his Travelling Circus, and it concerns the Clown, Domingo de Ybarrondo, who had the misfortune to fall off the Edge of the World.

Mr. Bacchus’ Travelling Circus had been on the road to Asia the Deep for several weeks, hoping to reach the fabled city of Xanadu, there to entertain the great Khan called Kublai. But since they had been given directions by the old man who sat under the hawthorn bush, the road had twisted and turned North, South, East and West, yet there was no sign of the gleaming towers of Xanadu. In fact everyone in the caravan was becoming tired of the whole business. Several weeks had passed and the Circus had not stopped once on its way, to put on a show. What was the use of being in a Circus that never performed?

In the middle of the lurching caravan stood Hero, the strongman, lifting Ophelia, the sad trapeze-girl, with one hand. Bathsheba the orang-outang was dangling from the light, Domingo the Clown was juggling green oranges, and Malachi the crocodile was snoring under the wardrobe. As always, Mr. Bacchus was sitting in his large wicker chair, but the expression on his face was far from his familiar smile. His chin was resting on his hands, and the leaves in his beard and his white hair had wilted. To be honest, he was beginning to suspect that the man at the side of the road had been mad, and that Xanadu had been some fancy. Outside, driving the giant Ibis-bird, Thoth, who pulled the caravan, sat Angelo, the young man with the black curly hair and the strange eyes, whistling “This is My Lovely Day.”

Inside, Malachi woke from fitful sleep. “If that Angelo doesn’t stop whistling, I shall personally have the pleasure of eating him,” he said. “What’s he got to be happy about?”

“He’s always happy,” said Bathsheba.

“Why?” said Domingo. “If we’re not being thrown about in here, we’re out in the drizzle pushing the caravan out of the mud, or trying to light fires in gales. Why don’t we give up trying to reach Cathay, Bacchus, and head South where there’s a little sun?”

“Because,” he said with growing enthusiasm, “once we get there, and perform for the Khan called Kublai, we will be famous. Undoubtedly word of our genius will spread across the world in a matter of weeks. The adulation will be unbounded. Mayan princes will invite us to perform for them!”

“Not if we arrive in this tatty caravan,” said Malachi.

“This caravan has been with me ever since I first took to the road, crocodile, and has been places you never guess existed.”

“That doesn’t make it any less tatty,” replied Malachi reasonably, “or uncomfortable.”

“They’ll send sedan chairs for us, anyway, won’t they, Mr. Bacchus?” said Ophelia.

“They may very well, my dear,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “And a cart for the crocodile.”

“Cathay!” exclaimed Hero abruptly. “What if we do reach Cathay? Do you think that the great Khan will let us perform for him?”

“Why not?” replied Mr. Bacchus, with a smile creeping over his face. “We’re the greatest show on earth! You painted that on the caravan yourself, Hero!”

“I also painted flying plates and entirely red gardens, but that doesn’t mean they exist,” said Hero.

“Anyways, Bacchus, you don’t really believe all that nonsense, do you?” said Malachi. “We’re the most miserable show on earth, perhaps, but we’re certainly not the greatest.”

At this, Mr. Bacchus rose from his chair, his face growing vermillion with anger, and started at Malachi: “Crocodile,” he said. “Teeth or no teeth, I will not tolerate pessimism. Look at us! We have the finest trapeze-girl in the world. Who else can pirouette on a slack wire with an orang-outang on her head? And Hieronymous! There is nobody alive in the hemisphere as strong as he! Why, I once saw him carry six fully-grown bulls on his shoulders, and hardly turn a hair. Then there’s that dear boy, Angelo, and his moths; Domingo—the happiest—”

“I’m not happy,” said the Clown, dropping two of his oranges. “It’s no use saying I am. I’m extremely unhappy. And I have nightmares—”

“Personally,” said Malachi, with a fake yawn. “If we don’t reach Cathay soon, supposing Cathay exists in the first place, I shall leave this Circus.”

“Oh, Malachi,” said Ophelia, tears springing to her eyes, which they did with monotonous regularity. “You wouldn’t?”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” said the crocodile, with a hollow laugh.

“Where would you go?” put in Hero.

“I should go back to the Nile,” said Malachi with dignity, “where my species is worshipped. They build pyramids for us.”

“Go then,” said Mr. Bacchus. “I shall find another crocodile.”

“Maybe even an alligator,” said Hero. “It’s well known that alligators are a more intelligent species.”

“What?” roared Malachi.

“I said that it’s a well know—” began Hero.

Suddenly there was a cry from Bathsheba, who had ceased to dangle from the lamp and was peering out the window.

“A town! A town! There’s a signpost, pointing to a town! Stop the caravan! It’s a town!”

“Can we put a show on here?” asked Ophelia as the caravan lurched to a stop.

“Please,” said Domingo. “I just feel like performing.”

“We really ought to be getting along to Cathay,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “But who could resist it? A town! An audience! The torches! The flags! The sawdust! The money! The applause! Stop the caravan, Angelo, my boy; we’re here! We’re here!”

“It has stopped,” said Malachi with a pained expression, and opened the door.

The caravan disgorged the members of the Circus into a muddy field, with a light drizzle falling incessantly from the murky November sky.

“Mud!” exclaimed Malachi delightedly, and immediately proceeded to roll in it.

Domingo de Ybarrondo sneezed.

“Bless you, my boy, bless you,” said Mr. Bacchus. “Right! Let us erect the stage! And the flags! Don’t forget the flags!” Then in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, he began to sing:

“Bring me my bow of burning gold

Bring me my arrows of desire!

And dum de da de dum divine

Bring me my chariot of fire,

De dum upon those clouded mills …”

“I wish he’d learn the words,” said Bathsheba.

“Or better still,” said Malachi, “not sing at all.”

As they put up the stage, the rain began to come on more heavily, and the somber clouds were occasionally lit by distant lightning.

“Angelo, my boy,” said Mr. Bacchus, when the preparations for the performance were nearing completion. “Take the big drum and go into the town! Tell the people that the show will begin half an hour before sunset precisely. Malachi will go with you.”

“Oh no, Malachi won’t,” said the crocodile. “Malachi is staying in the mud where he’s happy.”

“I’ll go,” Bathsheba volunteered, picking up the drum and beating it as hard as she could. “We’ll have an audience in no time.”

Angelo and Bathsheba had just disappeared down the road to the town when Domingo, who had wandered off across the rain-veiled field to practice his juggling, came running back breathlessly.

“Bacchus! Bacchus!” he cried, the rain dripping off the end of his nose. “Do you know where we are?”

“In a field,” Mr. Bacchus said.

“But this isn’t just any field,” said Domingo, and he pointed to the far edge. Everybody followed his finger. Where the dead ground came to an end, there was a signpost, and after that—nothing. Only a wall of grey cloud. It looked as if there were a huge hole in the field, with no far side.

“What does the signpost say?” asked Mr. Bacchus, screwing up his eyes, and searching for his glasses, which he had left in Delphi, in his waistcoat pocket. Domingo de Ybarrondo went paler than ever under his makeup.

“It says: This is Where the World Ends,” he replied.

“What?” said Malachi. “Where the World Ends?”

“Yes,” said the Clown. “Look for yourself. The field just stops, and there is nothing but sky and clouds, and an endless drop.”

They all crossed the field through the foul mud and rotting nettles, and approached the Edge of the World. The signpost was correct. This was definitely where the world ended. They all stared blankly at the wall of cloud, and the wall of cloud stared blankly back. Hero broke the silence.

“Where’s Cathay?” he said.

“It isn’t here,” replied Ophelia, and began to cry.

“We’ve taken the wrong turn somewhere along the way,” said Malachi. “I said we shouldn’t trust your sense of direction, Bacchus.”

“I wouldn’t like to fall over there,” said Hero. “You never know where you’d end up.”

“I agree,” said Domingo. “I think we ought to go and camp somewhere else. I mean suppose the caravan rolled off the edge in the middle of the night?”

“It’s never rolled anywhere before,” said Malachi.

“Of course it hasn’t, my boy,” said Mr. Bacchus confidently. “I have great faith in the caravan. It’s a remarkably sensible caravan. Don’t fret yourself. It won’t roll away. Take my word for it.”

****

When Angelo and Bathsheba returned form the town, they looked downhearted.

“There’s nobody in the streets,” said Angelo. “The town looks completely deserted. All the doors are bolted, the windows nailed down, and the curtains drawn. The people must have locked themselves in their houses. It’s most peculiar.”

“What’s this?” exclaimed Mr. Bacchus. “In their houses? When Mr. Maximillian Bacchus’ Circus is in town? Never!” And he took the drum from Bathsheba, put the strap around his neck, and, yelling: “Follow me, each and every one of you!” led the way towards the town, beating the drum.

The wind blew paper down the empty streets, and the rainwater gurgled down the gutters. But there were no towns-people to be seen or heard. Mr. Bacchus marched up and down for a while, beating the drum, but had to admit it was useless. Then he spoke to Angelo.

“Dear boy,” he said. “Get out your pipe and play.”

So Angelo took out his reed pipe from his belt and played a single wavering note on it. Malachi, meanwhile, stood up, closed his eyes, clasped his claws in front of him, and began to sing excerpts from “La Traviata.” Domingo balanced on his blue ball, and juggled oranges; Hero lifted Ophelia on one hand where she pirouetted, while Bathsheba performed head-stands on his other palm, then stood on one leg himself, while Mr. Bacchus went from door to door and knocked loudly.

At the windows of some of the houses, dirty curtains were parted an inch or two, and children’s faces appeared out, grinning. Then, up and down the street, there came the sound of bolts being slid, and one by one the doors cracked open. One little boy slipped through the half-open door and ran into open air, laughing and clapping. But his mother pursued him, looking up and down the street in fear all the while, and snatched him up in her arms.

“Go away,” she said to Mr. Bacchus. “Or they’ll come for you.”

“Who or what?” said Mr. Bacchus.