Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  Dorothea stood in his saddle, though his short frame offered him little room to aim his recurve bow over the head of his mottled brown mare. The horse nickered and shifted its pace at the gunshot, but its rider dug his foot into its ribs to command the horse to turn broadside. Accompanying the sound of feverish running, a small blur sped past the two riders and sprinted through the thickets.

  Dorothea drew his specially made bow in one fluid motion. The bowstring sat comfortably at the tip of his mouth. Slotted between his fingers, a specially carved arrow. Time seemed to drag through honey, allowing him the moment he needed to alter his current aim to shoot the quarry. As his fingers released the arrow, he noticed his own shoddy workmanship; the arrow’s slight imperfection in its shaft, minute at best, caused it to wobble. As it sped through the air seeking its target, the imperfection altered its destination, but only by a fraction of a measure. It would still need to be addressed later.

  The arrow found its mark. The creature let out a yelp as the metal head pierced its upper torso.

  “I see you’re quick as ever on the draw there, Dorothea,” the king remarked, lowering his crossbow. The two dismounted and walked the distance to the fallen prey.

  Dorothea sucked in his breath when he saw the corpse of a young boy, felled by his faulty arrow. “Providence, it is but a child,” he remarked.

  “That’s King Providence to you, Dorothea,” the king said, chuckling as he emphasized the power over his brother. “And this one was a particularly unique echoer. Turn it over and look at its eyes,” he said, pointing with his boot.

  Dorothea pulled the arrow free from the child’s back. The iron head was stuck in a bone and remained lodged in the corpse. Rolling the boy over, he gasped at the peace on the boy’s face. With a careful thumb, he peered under the boy’s eyelids, revealing a pair of eyes, black as the night sky devoid of stars.

  “See what I mean?” The king’s voice split through the serenity of the moment.

  Dorothea swatted away the tears that smarted his eyes.

  “It’s a good thing we got it now,” Providence continued. “Had it grown and developed more, it surely would’ve turned into the monster that all echoers are destined to become. Plus, now its line is cut. Well, as long as the bastard didn’t have siblings.”

  Dorothea stared back, unconvinced that the guilt he felt could be tampered by any sentiments of the sort.

  “Don’t think of it as killing a kid. Think of it as saving that child from a life of misery. An echoer’s life is not an easy one.” The king brushed his hands together and walked back to his horse. “So, this task that I have for you,” he said, his voice betraying no trouble at the action he had just ordered and witnessed. “I want you to take a band of about fifty soldiers and some civilians. Travel south and east, as far south as the reaches of the marshes, as far east as the coast.”

  “May I ask what for, my King?” Dorothea returned to his horse after closing the eyes of the boy when the king was not looking.

  “Morale. I need to know what the people of those towns are thinking. I need to know if they are buying into this rift in Lyrinth,” Providence said, pulling on a loose flap of skin on his neck.

  “Don’t you think, my King, that one of your other generals is better suited. Certainly not your most loyal—”

  The king dismissed Dorothea’s concern by clicking his tongue.

  He rephrased his concern. “Don’t you think people are going to smudge their loyalty when questioned by a royal general and small regiment of soldiers?”

  “What do you take me for, daft?” Providence yelled. “You won’t be traveling as an army. You’ll take some of the animals, pilfer some toys from the fools in Nimbus and you’ll be traveling as a menagerie. I’m sending you, Dorothea, because I know that I can trust you. Because you are my most inconspicuous general. Because you are my kin. Blood from the same womb. I know how you think, and you, I. We are on the brink of a war and I need to know where my people stand, especially as the winteryear draws closer. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my King.”

  “You are assuming the role of a ringleader in a menagerie. I expect you gone by the first of the month.” Providence paused. “Don’t worry, Dorothea. People like flapping their lips to those they feel are under them. You should have a good idea of their loyalties,” he said.

  Dorothea clenched his fists at his side, his eyebrows knitted together in anger.

  ◆◆◆

  Present day.

  “Good, you’re back,” Gnochi said, looking up as Cleo bounded into their shared abode and slammed the door behind her, heaving her back to the door and exhaling. He sat cross-legged on their cot. “Everything alright?” He arched an eyebrow to accentuate the question. In the weeks the pair had traveled together, Cleo had never acted this brutish and blatant with her emotions.

  “What would make you say that?” she asked, visibly trying to even out her breathing.

  “Well, if it’s nothing, then I need you to get your scribner’s tools ready. Dorothea wants me to perform a story before we embark.” Gnochi peered out the window, judging the sun and pursing his lips in thought. “If he waits this long to leave every day, we might make quicker tracks traveling alone.” He waited as Cleo gathered up her pen, ink, and the worn leather journal.

  “Well, he did say that it was non-stop to Blue Haven,” Cleo said. “We won’t need to go through this loading and unloading of all of the wagons every day.”

  ◆◆◆

  Clutching the journal to her chest, Cleo followed behind Gnochi as he made his way to the central tent. High in the late-morning sky, the sun was beginning to peek out from behind an impregnable wall of heavy clouds. The wind had picked up, carrying a brisk autumnal chill that made her wish the poncho did not flow so freely behind her like a cape but rather hugged a little tighter to her small body.

  Inside the main tent, Dorothea had called a meeting and plopped himself down on his velvet throne. The other members of the menagerie were converging from their posts and sitting in a semi-circle around their leader, none sitting too close as if afraid he might spit on them. In scanning the crowd, she saw neither Harvey nor Roy. She released a breath she had not realized she was holding. Gnochi made his way through the group and sat before Dorothea’s chair. Following, Cleo plopped down at his side and prepared for her transcription.

  “All right you peasants, settle down,” Dorothea said, clearing his throat of phlegm. “As some of you now know, we have two new members in our ranks: a bard, one Gnochi Gleeman, and his boy apprentice, Boli,” Dorothea said, adding emphasis to the word ‘boy.’

  Cleo felt Gnochi stiffen where her crossed knee pressed into the side of his thigh. As if on cue, Harvey and Roy snuck into the meeting and squatted in the back.

  “Your timing is impeccable as always, boys.” Dorothea looked back to Gnochi and Cleo, a frown returning to his face. “Now I’ll introduce you to everyone. You’ve already met myself: Ringleader Dorothea,” he said smiling as he leveled himself with Gnochi by adding a forename. “There’s the elephanteer and medic: Harvey. Roy is one of our hired guards.”

  Cleo’s thoughts were then swamped by the dozens of names and jobs rattled off and further encumbered by Dorothea’s incessant drawl.

  “Zara is the peasant standing in the back. She is our resident sword swallower.”

  Cleo turned her attention to the performer, who stood in the far recesses of the tent, a dark cowl hiding her face. The performer’s head shifted, and Cleo felt icicles shoot down her spine. She looked away and tuned back into Dorothea’s listing, realizing that he was naming each of the menagerie’s scamp children.

  Trying to keep from dozing, Cleo sketched the coat of arms on the journal’s front page. Her fingers tingled with the precision of her pen-strokes. Despite her fatigue, she maintained a steady hand as she drew the curved Latin scroll underneath. After a minute of further additions, Cleo was jolted from her concentration by Gnochi huffing air through
his nose in a comical tone. She shot him a steel glare but reddened when she realized that he was smirking at the addition she had penned lining the kite shield’s lip: her own name written with ornate dagger-like serifs and frills including a tittle in the hollow center of her ‘o.’

  Dorothea’s voice seemed to take a higher volume as he finished his roll call. “And I’m not sure where she is, but Nettles is our cook. Keep her on your good side and you’ll live with minimal discomfort here in the Perm.”

  “I do gather all of Harvey’s herbs,” a woman said as she entered from behind the throne. “I know enough to cause a nasty stomach.” Nettles was a thin woman and her face looked to be adorned by a permanent scowl. Atop her head, ratty grey hair held a few bold streaks of black as though the rogue hairs clung to some youthful independence. She carried a tough air, which made Cleo look beyond the cook’s frail stature. The way she addressed the menagerie indicated that she was accustomed to dealing with rabble and squelching trouble. She handed Cleo a small pewter mug that steamed and smelled of a sweet tea.

  “I cannot even imagine how such an orchid could speak the poison of hemlock, let alone perform such.”

  Cleo heard the words, but she was unaware that Gnochi knew how to flirt until that moment.

  “Oh, if only I was a different woman. You sure would know how to nestle your way into this heart.” Nettles smiled.

  “Yes, and a young woman’s heart, too, it seems,” Dorothea said, chuckling. “Mister Gleeman, if you are well enough done troubling my cook, I think we’d all like to see what we’re getting into by taking in two more mouths to feed, three if you count that mare of yours.”

  “Yes. Well, let’s begin, shall we? Boli, have your pen ready to take notes.” She caught him glancing over her shoulder at the blank page. “I want to create a compendium first and foremost,” he explained. “But I also want to teach some history at the same time. With that in mind, in lieu of a traditional story, I’d like to tell you about a menagerie from the first age.” Gnochi sucked in a deep breath of the stuffy tent air and stretched his fingers until they cracked in protest.

  “These menageries, often referred to as circuses, were long publicized by colorful pamphlets and advertisements in the local paper and on the television. The annual circus was the pinnacle of small-town entertainment. Children, looking out at the passing scenery during tedious highway car-trips, would gawk at the candy striped tents and gaudy lights that soared high over the treetops. Those same children would feel anxious, excited, and giddy in the week prior to the opening evening. And as the days neared Friday, those children would become restless and unmanageable, especially in their studies.

  “Adolescents, too, would ride the metaphorical train of hype leading up to the circus. Rumors of who was taking whom as a date dominated their petty gossip circles. Around the lunch-tables, they would recount tales of last year’s happenings. Who puked after riding on the shoddy coasters and who kissed whom atop the Ferris wheel.

  “Even their parents, who would never stoop to such trivialities as gossip, were growing eager for the coming circus. Carpool circles formed, chaperone cliques re-emerged from their dusty year’s rest, and coordinated contraband smuggling began. In a word: normalcy.

  “For three short nights, the vast money pits that were: cheap fun, exciting and dangerous thrills, and sub-par acting, made this small town into the center of its own world. Everyone attended the circus. Absences were noted and frowned upon. It was all social convention. Children liked going because—well, they just liked going. Teens wouldn’t be isolated by remaining at home; adults grasping at their lost childhoods went everyday if their work schedules or prior permitted.”

  Cleo cleared her throat, drawing Gnochi’s attention for a moment. He looked to her and she shook her head, then smiled and pointed to her lips.

  “Pessimism aside,” Gnochi amended, “carnivals and circuses were quite exciting, but only because of the characters that made them up. Every circus had its ringleader, an eccentric character with an electric personality whose garb matched their style. They were the mouthpiece of the show and the face that children remembered.

  “You had your animal tamers, of course. All manner of beasts made their appearance on one stage or another. From the mighty elephants and the ferocious lions of the African savannah to cunning tigers, or domesticated dogs and seals, no class of animal was absent from circuses. Often they were trained to perform tricks or mere mundane tasks.

  “Next came your strong folk (usually men).” Gnochi took a moment to pause. He sipped at his mug, then made an editorial comment. “They were disregarded in the late first age, as more and more people saw past strength as a carnal, carnival characteristic. It just wasn’t as entertaining to see a man pick up raw weights once it became a part of everyday life.

  “Acrobats and contortionists were a gambit of their own caliber. They either performed the most death-defying stunts imaginable, swinging from high atop the tent without the safety of a net below, or they walked, on hands or feet, to the tune of their own bodies which they stretched and shaped at their own will.

  “Your run-of-the-mill entertainers were your jugglers and clowns. They walked the grounds of the carnival keeping an eye on the crowds. Master craftsmen in their own accord, they could manipulate all kinds of media with their hands, often creating cheap toys or overpriced mementos to further sap money from parents’ purses.

  “Of course, I have forgotten the freaks. Freakish people, anomalies of nature not unlike our echoers, were all the talk of the children, to whom the—”

  “Let me stop you there, Gleeman,” Dorothea said, tugging his robe flat before his stomach. “There is a rule in my menagerie: no freaks. And by freaks, I mean echoers.” He stared at Gnochi. “The king has made it quite clear what he believes about echoers and that they should be smitten from the surface of the Earth. We are Providence’s Royal Menagerie, so we must respect the king’s wishes. If we happen upon an echoer, it is our duty to euthanize the vermin.”

  At that moment, Cleo felt a shiver. She shrunk into the poncho.

  “I don’t want to hear about them in my entertainment, so you’d best find something else to talk about.”

  “Well, point taken,” Gnochi said, scowling. He scratched at the infantile bristles sprouting from his cheeks. “So, each character in these circuses can hold his or her own, but when considered on their own, they are not worth the hubbub. It’s when they come together though. When the ringleader, the exotic animals, the strong folk, contortionists and acrobats, jugglers, and clowns. When they all converge and perform together, what’s produced is pure magic.” A few of the impish children crawled forward to better hear. Looking down to his eager audience members, Gnochi said, “Children were quieter then, than any other time during the year. Their short attention spans so engrossed, they couldn’t fathom betraying their eyes from the sights in front of them.”

  Cleo watched Gnochi gaze up at the ceiling, though she imagined that his mind was well entrenched in the past.

  “An acrobat has jumped from the top of a mighty elephant, swings on the outstretched arms of another and hurdles herself through a ring of fire onto a trampoline. All the while, the feral snarls of a tiger as it snaps at a blood-dripping, raw hunk of meat, whets audiences’ auditory appetites. With the crack of a sharp whip, a clan of hounds circles the stage and flowers out up the aisles, providing each section of audience with a personalized interaction.”

  Gnochi paused, his eyes clenched shut as if trying to prevent the imagery from seeping out. “I can smell the air, even though I live thousands of years after the last recorded carnival of this proportion.” He paused, making a visible effort to suck air into his nostrils. “It’s faintly buttery and cheaply sweet. Mixed among those aromas is the heavy musk of animal feces.” He again rubbed the smallest growth of stubble sprouting on his face. He seemed to return to the present, his eyes falling from the ceiling and surveying his audience, many of whom were silently
picturing the circus he had described, their eyes clenched tight. “I do have a story that happens to fit the carnival. That is unless anyone has any pressing questions they need answered?” After a long moment of silence, he continued. “Okay Boli, get ready. This is a new story. It’s called Bifröst.”

  Cleo turned to a blank page, smoothed it with a palm that still bore the stains from a previous writing session. The faded black ink gave the appearance that her pale hands were bruised but she held the pen with a grace that opposed their injured appearance.

  Bifröst

  Cocooned in a ratty blanket frilled at the edges, baby Lucille, with milky irises devoid of recognition, stared at her brother as he sprinted through the underbrush. Icy daggers in the form of thorns and decrepit brambles whipped at his torn clothes and left his exposed skin raw, covered in feral stripes of painted blood. The boy, still years from his first beard, had long since abandoned stealth in favor of speed. His ferocious drive afforded the pair a comfortable gap from their pursuers, but the cuts and welts were beginning to overwhelm him with localized stinging. For once, the boy was grateful for the omnipresent winter. The farther and faster he ran, the more his chilled nerves refused to send their pain signals to his brain.

  Somewhere between the frozen swamp and the edge of the white forest where he now stood, the boy had lost his right shoe. The only reason he noticed its absence at all was because he paused from his trek to regain his breath and listen for pursuit. Looking down, he thought he had stepped in a rusty can of paint or on some winter berry-bush oozing out blue sludge. It was only when he, wiggling his stiff toes, allowed five small slits of the white snow through, that he realized his shoe had fallen off and that the gnarled blue appendage was his foot. Knowing he would not run much farther without addressing his near frozen foot, the boy surgically removed his sister from her wrap and tucked her against his bare chest, buttoning the front to create a pouch. Still warm, Lucille squirmed around against his skin. He tied the blanket around his foot, noting grimly the lack of feeling as he knotted it to his bony ankle. Smiling as he remembered his mother’s ticklings, not even the soft spot on the sole of his foot registered the slightest feeling.