The Pilo Family Circus

by Elliott, Will

  To answer his own question, where they were was obvious: a circus. Which circus, why and how he didn’t know. But suddenly none of that seemed very important; he sniffed the buttered popcorn scent, and felt a light- headedness creep into him, as though he’d inhaled some kind of narcotic perfume. No, it’s not important where you are, said a friendly voice inside. Just relax! No questions. It’s the carnival. You know, the CARNIVAL!

  Indeed it was. A sudden burst of good cheer stole through him, and now he felt like he’d used to feel on a Friday night in the city, around about the second or third bourbon of the night, when the jukebox played a song by Talking Heads and the bar was packed with women. He paused to gaze about himself in wonder, and Steve snapped: ‘Jamie! Are you coming to this magic show or am I going to kick the shit out of you?’

  Jamie looked at him and grinned the grin of a happy idiot. ‘Sure!’ he said, and followed.

  A chalkboard outside a medium-sized tent read: MUGABO THE MIGHTY MYSTIC. Steve yanked Jamie inside, where they saw a small stage loaded with magician’s props. There was an upside down top hat, out of which a rabbit was to be pulled, no doubt; a black wand with white tips which probably drooped when picked up; bundles of coloured ribbon; and interlocking silver rings. Steve and Jamie sat in the front row of plastic seats while the audience settled in around them, and soon the tent filled with drowsy conversation. At the back of the stage was a curtain primed to be parted for a grand entrance. The audience hushed as harsh whispering could suddenly be heard behind it. ‘Bunny treek?’ a strangely accented voice yelled. ‘I’ll do your bunny treek, peeg!’

  ‘Mugabo, we’ve been through this,’ said another voice. ‘Sticks and stones, for Christ’s sake. You’re not going to let Rufshod —’

  ‘That clown peeg! You friend, huh? Bunny treek! I can light ze fucking sky, does he know zat? I can — GET YOU HAND OFF —’

  There were sounds of a scuffle; a slap, a grunt, a body falling to the ground. The audience watched with interest as the curtain tugged on its frame. The apparent brawl went on for a full minute before the curtains parted, and far from a grand entrance, the magician stumbled and sprawled onto the stage as though he’d been picked up and thrown. An uncertain round of applause greeted him.

  A puff of white smoke rose belatedly from the floor. When it cleared, a surly-looking black man in a turban was trying to straighten his robe with shaking hands. Mugabo the magician cut a tall gangling figure, taller still with the white turban he wore wrapped around his head like a giant egg. A jewel sat in its middle. He peeled his lips back and snarled at the audience with teeth that seemed to glow white against the blackness of his skin. He flung his arms at the rows of seats and spat on the floor. ‘Stop your clapping!’ the magician screamed. The applause ceased. ‘Okay, you fucks. You want ze bunny treek?’

  The audience was clapping again, egging him on with jovial catcalls. Mugabo nodded his head, the turban flopping back and forth. His deep voice was scathing. ‘All right. I geev you your bunny treek.’ He stalked over to the table, gave one glance back over his shoulder at the curtain, then grinned as he rolled back his sleeves. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I am Mugabo ze mighty mystic … or sometheeng. I will dedicate zis treek to zat fuckpig of a clown. Zis all for him.’

  He reached into the hat and, as Jamie expected, out came a pair of long soft white ears. The rabbit kicked its legs at the air. There was a brief round of polite applause. ‘Yes, you like ze bunny?’ Mugabo crooned. ‘How nice! They like ze bunny. So … how do you like … ZIS!’ Mugabo’s face ruptured into a scowl. He jerked his fist and the rabbit towards the audience. The rabbit flopped around for a moment or two, little legs pumping the air, before it exploded in a white and red cloud. There was a sound like fruit being squashed. Blood and shreds of rabbit meat splattered over the first two rows of the audience. A small pile of gore spilled at the magician’s feet.

  ‘HA HA!’ Mugabo yelled. He bent over at the waist, thumping his fist on the table, shrieking something between a laugh and a howl. The audience went completely silent.

  Two figures burst through the curtains. Jamie recognised one of them — it was Doopy the clown, who Jamie understood to be an old acquaintance from somewhere just out of memory. The other was a burly dwarf wearing an eye patch. ‘All part of the show, folks,’ said the dwarf as he threw himself at Mugabo, tackling him around the ankles. Then Droopy and the dwarf wrestled the kicking, flailing magician off the stage.

  The show appeared to be over. The audience clapped uncertainly. Jamie picked some white fur from his shirt and wiped blood from his face. A baby in the arms of the woman beside him had its face covered in rabbit blood; she didn’t seem to mind, or even to notice. She and her husband stood, waiting for a path to clear to the exits.

  There was a faint sound Jamie recognised, like marbles clinking together. It came from below his feet. Looking down, he saw tiny little crystals scattered thinly through the grass. Where had he seen these before? He couldn’t remember. He knew this much: the crystals had not been on the ground when they entered the tent. Now they gleamed around people’s feet as they made their way down the aisle to the exit, like coins dropping from their pockets.

  As they left the magic show, the curtain behind the stage was jerking in accompaniment to the sounds of slaps, grunts, cracks. There was a thud as a body hit the floor. All part of the show.

  Outside, through the smell of buttered-popcorn came something stronger, the scent of incense like an invisible finger beckoning him with a long manicured nail. Without a word he followed the scent, Steve on his heels. In the crowd he saw others from the magic show passing by, oblivious to the smears of rabbit blood on their shirts and faces as they chatted and laughed. Steve promptly announced he was going to Sideshow Alley and ran off, shouldering his way through the crowd and nearly bowling people over. Jamie let him go without a care, for he was distracted by erotic visions promised in the sweet scent coiling around him like caressing fingers. Behind his eyes dark-skinned women like Egyptian princesses ran ahead of him, naked bodies in full flight, gesturing for him to follow. Punch-drunk, he did, down a path where the crowd thinned, the background music faded, and the air was cooler.

  A pair of dwarfs wrestling in the dirt beside the path froze as Jamie approached, scowled at him, then ran off. Suddenly the teasing erotic visions vanished and he found himself standing before a small hut with hanging beads for an entrance. He shook himself and looked around in confusion, startled to see there was no one else around. Hesitantly he parted the beads which clicked together like marbles. It seemed to be a fortune-teller’s hut, but somebody was already visiting.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jamie said as the man in the hut turned around.

  Something cold crept over Jamie’s skin. A voice inside told him to run away, very fast, right now. But as that passed he realised the man’s face must be covered in makeup, that’s all — that’s why his eyes blazed with that insane light from beneath a lump of bony brow as dark as a thundercloud; that’s why every contour from forehead to jaw was so wolf-like the man would not have looked out of place howling at the moon, despite the fact he wore a business suit; that’s why he was well over seven feet tall, with hands far too large and yellow nails as long as talons.

  The monster looked down at him from a full foot above. ‘Oh, I do like apologies,’he said in a deep, civilised voice. ‘But, no problem. I was just on my way out. Enjoy your fortunes.’

  He stepped past Jamie with the utmost courtesy. A smile came to his thick lips which seemed almost kindly, perhaps the way a werewolf smiles at a cub. Jamie looked away from him, shivering, and for a second there was none of the intoxicated good cheer left in him, only cold fear of a world made of traps and snags and dark places people stumble into.

  The huge man pushed through the rattling beads, stooping beneath the top of the doorframe, and was gone. The chill passed.

  What had been an almost overpowering smell of sandalwood outside the hut was merely a mild flavour in the
air inside it. The atmosphere was different from the rowdy good cheer outside; cooler and quieter, like sleep. A gypsy woman sat at a round table, fingering a deck of tarot cards and gazing up at Jamie with a hint of a smile. She had smooth light-brown skin, sparkling eyes and straight black hair falling from her head in silky waves. Behind her there were bookshelves stacked with nameless tomes, and charts of bright stars hung from the walls, filling the air before them with a faint white glow. A glass ball sat on the table before her, balanced upon a small wooden base shaped like a claw. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ the fortune-teller said, nodding after the monster. ‘He is harmless. That is Kurt Pilo. He owns the circus.’

  ‘He doesn’t look harmless,’ said Jamie.

  ‘That is true,’ said the fortune-teller. ‘When angered he looks like harm itself.’ She stared into the distance for a moment, the smile fading from her lips. ‘But it takes a good deal to anger him, and if you tried he would probably only find reason to be amused. Please, be seated.’

  Something about the sound of her voice made Jamie think of rich colourful liqueurs being poured into crystal glasses. He sat on the wooden crate beside the table. ‘I am in something of a hurry today,’ she said, ‘I have half a dozen visitors who need their fortunes read, so I must make this brief. Your hand, please?’

  Jamie held out his hand and she traced her finger lightly over his palm. Her fingers were cool and sent little shivers through him wherever they touched. ‘Look into my eyes, Jamie,’ she said quietly. He did, and grunted in surprise; it appeared her irises were changing size, one growing while the other shrank, then vice versa. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, ‘just watch my eyes dance. Aren’t they pretty, Jamie? Can’t you feel yourself walking down a long dark tunnel, through my eyes? You can feel my cool finger on your palm, guiding you, drawing a map to find the pathways through my eyes. Just my eyes, Jamie … Just watch my eyes …’

  The voice slipped inside him like a drug, the sweet voice telling him secrets, words he could hear but not understand, and before he knew it his eyes had glazed over and closed.

  She’s hypnotising me, was his last thought before he succumbed.

  A voice hammered as hard as a rock into his head.

  Tomorrow afternoon. You are going to go out, leaving the house at exactly twenty past three, but you will leave your watch at home. You will go to this address: 344 Edward Street. You will wait outside the pub there. On the footpath you will see a blonde woman pushing a pram, waiting to cross the street. You will ask her what time it is. You are going to scratch your wrist nervously as she says something flirtatious.

  Jamie’s drowsy head nodded.

  You will say, ‘Thanks a ton.’ Then you will come straight home. You will not remember her face afterwards. You will not think back on the incident in any way.’

  ‘Why?’ Jamie murmured like someone talking in his sleep. ‘Can’t … leave me … ’lone?’

  There was a pause, and the feeling of eyes pressing into him, huge and painful like twin suns. Jamie squirmed and moaned. Don’t question me, said the voice. How are you able to question me? Did you … Have you swallowed some of the dust?

  Jamie nodded.

  Oh, for crying out — Who gave you the dust?

  ‘Just … picked it up,’ Jamie murmured. Talking was so hard each word almost hurt him. His head was slumped down onto his chest and he only wanted the voice not to be angry.

  Was it one of the clowns? it demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  Which clown? Where? When?

  ‘Goshy. Think his name’s Goshy. ’Bout a week ago. Fell out … his pocket.’

  A wave of anger like warm air brushed over him and he cowered, whimpering. There was a pause and the sound of fingernails drumming the tabletop before the voice said, Okay. Wake up now, Jamie. Come back to me. Wake up.

  He filtered back into consciousness, lured by a wave of perfume and two sparkling eyes. At first he thought he was staring at a pair of diamonds glinting in candlelight; the fortune-teller’s face appeared as a fuzzy outline around the jewels, and it seemed to take hours to resume its clarity and shape. ‘Pleasant trip?’ said Shalice the fortune-teller.

  Jamie tried to remember the last few minutes, but it felt like he was thinking through fog. ‘What happened? Was there something about a blonde woman?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Shalice said. She started packing things away with rapid movements, preoccupied and clearly annoyed about something. ‘Well, Jamie, thank you for stopping by. If you’ll excuse me I have something to take care of.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Jamie said and stood to go. Shalice brushed past him in a hurry, stepping through the beads and outside. Soon she was lost from sight. Jamie stared at the crystal ball for a moment, now hidden beneath a cloth cover, then left the hut.

  Outside the dark fragrant little place, the world’s colours and sounds seemed an assault. It took a moment to get his bearings; he could remember almost nothing since the magic show, and even that was hazy. Behind him, the glass beads at the hut’s entrance rattled in the breeze. What precisely had gone on in there?

  Again that soft, insistent voice: Nothing it’s your place to worry about. Enjoy the show.

  He was powerless to argue. The light-headed euphoria returned on a gust of breeze smelling of popcorn, and within a few deep breaths he felt giddy. He wandered slowly back to the more crowded pathways, browsing gypsy stalls as the afternoon grew dark.

  Evening fell and the sky over Sideshow Alley was alight with multicoloured streaks. Jamie veered instinctively away from the colours and came to a wooden building with a crimson glow around it and orange tongues of flame bursting from its open door like dragon’s breath: The funhouse.

  There were few patrons around — most seemed to be heading towards the giant marquees in the middle of the showgrounds, where the gypsy stallholders informed passers-by, the acrobats and clowns were soon to perform. Only two people waited by the funhouse steps: a young couple who stood completely still, staring directly ahead. Beside them was a robed figure holding a staff with a skull at its tip. A black hood concealed his face. From within the funhouse came the expected noises: bestial howls, women’s screams, a sound like giant teeth grinding together. Expected sounds, but by God they sounded real.

  A cart suddenly burst through the door, sparks flashing around its wheels as it scraped along the metal rail. It squealed to a halt. The robed figure waved his staff. Without a word the young couple climbed into the cart. Jamie glanced from them to the guardian, then headed for the steps. But the guardian barred the way with his staff. ‘What’s up?’ Jamie asked him.

  No answer. There was a horrible squealing that made him jump as the cart plunged ahead on its rail. The couple’s heads wobbled like rag dolls. A flash of orange flame burst out from the doors as they went in, then they were gone from view.

  Disappointed, Jamie waited for the next cart to wheel its way out. He glanced sidelong at the guardian, trying to make out the face beneath the hood. From inside the funhouse the sound of howling and screams kicked into a crescendo, trailing off into laughter like howling sexual ecstasy, drowning all distant carnival sounds before an abrupt silence fell.

  That was a bit much. Jamie backed away from the funhouse and turned to go. Then he heard the cart squealing to a halt. He looked back over his shoulder. The couple was nowhere to be seen; the cart was empty.

  He found he was hurrying away in a jog, as though his legs sensed danger his mind couldn’t. All part of the show, the voice inside assured him. Of course. What wasn’t?

  Set away from the rest of the attractions, he saw a huge tent with only a few small shanties around it — these seemed to be homes of the dwarfs and gypsies. Occasionally luminous pairs of eyes would peer balefully from cracks in curtains as he walked past. The dwarfs had come out in numbers since nightfall, foul-tempered little things who broke off their conversations when patrons came near, then resumed in heated angry voices. They carried small bags and co
uld be seen picking through the grass with steel tweezers. Jamie at first thought they were after spare change, but as he came near a pair of them at work he saw they were picking up the tiny gleaming crystals he’d noticed on the floor of the magician’s show. The dwarfs scowled at him with such ferocity he backed away in fright.

  When he neared the lonely tent he discovered it housed the freak show, and he hesitated before going in. The sick and weird held no appeal for him, but the eyes at the shanty windows were making him nervous, and getting out of sight seemed wise.

  The only light inside the freak show tent came from yellow bulbs illuminating the glass display cases. On the floor were more gleaming little points of light — more of those powder crystals, far more here than there’d been on the floor of Mugabo’s tent.

  To Jamie’s surprise, in front of one of the glass cases he saw Steve, who was staring avidly at something inside a tall fish tank. Steve spotted him and waved him over. ‘Have a look at this,’ Steve said.

  The label on the tank read: This is Tallow. His every living moment is hellish.

  A pair of human eyes stared mournfully out of a face that looked to be melting. Skin was running like candle wax, bubbling and dripping to the ground in pools before hardening into flesh-coloured lumps on the glass floor.

  ‘Every few minutes he picks up the bits that have melted off and puts them back on himself,’ Steve whispered with relish. Tallow watched them both sadly as a flesh-coloured bubble burst on its neck, dribbling and running down its chest. Jamie grimaced and turned away.

  ‘Jamie, look! He’s doing it!’ said Steve, sounding damn near aroused.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jamie said. ‘That’s sick. Come on.’

  ‘No way. You gotta see this place. Come and check out this guy.’ Steve dragged him by the arm to an exhibit not confined in a glass case. They stood before what may have once been human until nature played a very cruel joke. From the neck down he was fine, five feet or so of humanity dressed in a grey suit and tie. The thing’s head was where the trouble began — it was covered in scales, too large for its body, and had catfish whiskers growing from gills in the neck. Its mouth was very wide like a shark’s and packed with vicious teeth. When the mouth opened and spoke Jamie almost screamed.