Circus of Marvels

by Justin Fisher

  “You look tired, Ned, why don’t you sleep a while? Let me look after your troubled head.”

  Barbarossa clapped his hands and a fireplace appeared at Ned’s side, flushed orange with heat. From the hottest part of its burning coals came the sound of footsteps.

  “Yesss, your Greatness?”

  As the room faded, it occurred to him that Barbarossa had let him eat all of the food, without touching a thing. What a generous host, he thought, so much nicer than his brother.

  Awakenings

  Ned drifted in and out of a feverish slumber. The hours in his cabin seemed to blend into each other. Thoughts about his life before the Daedalus were strangely distant, as though somehow out of his reach. He didn’t feel too bothered about being lied to any more. He didn’t really feel anything, except that something wasn’t right. He was trapped, trapped with a pain somewhere deep inside his gut.

  Time stood still.

  “Time,” he murmured, lost in a wash of smoke and shadows.

  There was something about time, something urgent, something at stake.

  “No time.”

  What was it? He was angry about something, or jealous, or both. Was it a girl? A father? A mother? Somewhere inside of him, the boy that was before the Veil, before sugared treats and lies about lies, started to fight. Things were coming back into focus, things he’d put away, or hidden behind syrup and jam. He found himself thinking of his dad, the one he knew, not the one people kept telling him about. Lies, he thought, and the pain in his belly broke free.

  “Blearchhhhh.”

  Pancakes, waffles, doughnuts and cake came flying out of his mouth, landing with a sickly splat on the floor. He lay groaning on his bed, the combination of stomach cramps and heat keeping him awake. And then it came to him. A flood of bright memories: building Lego sets, then Meccano, for hour after hour; sitting with his father and studying the pieces, of anything, of everything. His dad might not have told him why, but he’d been looking out for him all along … training him. Terry Waddlesworth was an Engineer and unbelievably, completely unthinkably … so was Ned. As he remembered, everything in his thirteen-year-old head and heart shifted.

  “The letter! What’s inside it? My mum … she’s alive! I have to find my dad and mum and … Kitty! Kitty’s here, she’s here on the ship …”

  Whoever had or hadn’t lied was no longer the issue, at least not now in his marble-clad cell. Kitty was in danger and he had to try and help her. He thought of all the cakes and sweets he’d devoured in the last twenty-four hours and his stomach churned. That’s how he got to me, thought Ned. Something about the pirate-butcher’s food had turned his mind.

  It was then that a small, fast moving rodent scampered over to Ned’s bed and climbed up on to his pillows. The Debussy Mark 12 ticker had a deep scratch in his side, revealing some of his shiny inner workings.

  “Whiskers, you don’t look too good. Was it the cat?”

  The metallic mouse stared at him as if to say, “Well, it’s about time you woke up!” Then did some violent “yes” head bobbing.

  “You knew about the food?”

  The Debussy Mark 12 responded in the most extraordinary way. It carefully lowered its head so that it was flat to the pillow and opened its mouth.

  Bzzt, ching, bzzt, ching ching.

  Through its lips streamed a flow of perfectly typed ticker-tape. A Hidden-made version of a telegram. It was from Benissimo.

  ned stop eat nothing stop find kitty stop get off ship stop TERRIBLE DANGER stop

  All sound advice, if a little late. And getting off the ship was a good idea in theory, but the last time he’d looked they were floating over a barren sea. Ned was going to need more than advice.

  “Right, well I think we need to send old tash-face a reply. How does this tape thingy work, Whiskers?”

  Bzzt, ching, whrrr, bzzt ching, went Whiskers.

  PS stop, recordo-gram works only one way stop

  Ned’s heart sank. Whiskers bit off the end of the tape and went back to normal.

  “Right, thank you, Whiskers, that was brilliant and um … extremely weird.”

  His mouse nodded.

  “So it looks like we’re on our own. What we need is a plan. Dad always loved a plan, or at least a set of instructions. Have you seen Kitty? Do you know where she is?”

  Whiskers scanned the room, looking about as lost in thought as a clockwork mouse can, till he found the answer directly behind him. A portrait of Barbarossa hung by Ned’s bed. It was the first time Ned had noticed it. For a moment, he thought he might be sick again.

  “She’s with Barbarossa?”

  The mouse shook his head vigorously.

  “She’s near him? No … she’s in his quarters?”

  Bingo.

  Ned found himself thinking increasingly clearly and angrily. More so than ever before.

  “Whiskers,” Ned said at last, “I need you to do something for me. I need you to go out there and find me a key for that door.”

  Whiskers tilted his head to one side, as though mulling over what he’d said. Then he did a slightly robotic salute, before reaching up a front paw and … unscrewing the end of his nose.

  From the new opening, two small metal rods came into view, one with an L-shaped bend at its end, the other curving up into a small hook. Ned gawped.

  “A torsion wrench and a hook pick?”

  His key-faced mouse nodded.

  “Whiskers, I know you’re just a bundle of pistons and cogs, but you’re brilliant.”

  Effortlessly the Debussy Mark 12 had supplied him with the next best thing to keys – a basic set of lock picks. When Ned was little one of his dad’s favourite games had been ‘Free Up the Pudding’. After supper he’d lock the kitchen door, giving Ned a set of picks with which to open it up again and retrieve his prize. It had taken him six months to master the skill; to be able to visualise the inner workings of the lock and tinker it open each time. In later years he’d thought of it as a typically eccentric Waddlesworth pastime. He was just beginning to understand how much of his childhood had been about preparing him for the eventuality of … now.

  “Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, as he gingerly worked his pet mouse’s tools. It didn’t take long for the lock to click loose.

  Unfortunately, it took Sar-adin even less time to raise the alarm after they’d broken out of Ned’s room, and within minutes of their escape the ship’s corridors tremored with the pounding of feet.

  “Search every inch!” yelled one of the crew captains ahead.

  He was thick-skinned, swarthy and part ogre from the look of his bulky stomach and green mottled skin. He was also blocking the way to Barbarossa’s quarters.

  “Whiskers, now what?” hissed Ned.

  But his ever-resourceful rodent had the problem in hand and was already pointing nose-first at a small hatch in the ship corridor’s wall to Ned’s left. Ned managed to prise it open with a few hard pulls. He crawled through the gap after his mouse and closed the hatch behind him carefully. Inside the ship’s labyrinthine network of ventilation shafts the pipework was searing to the touch and what little air they had was almost too hot to breathe. But at least here the sound of the search parties was muffled and distant.

  They crawled inch by sweat-pouring inch and Ned had to clamber up and down almost vertical chutes till he was bruised and battered. With Whiskers leading, however, they finally made it to the ship’s map room. It was directly next to the captain’s quarters.

  “Gather the crew and unleash the Darklings. Get EVERYONE! I, WANT, THAT, BOY!” Barbarossa screamed.

  Then there was a screech followed by the sickening crunch of bone and muscle. In his rage, Barbarossa had kicked the ship’s cat out of the room and into the corridor. Ned watched through a grate in horror as Fang skidded to a halt, then lay motionless.

  “No crossy Ba-ba, slippty boy findee,” whined a fearful Eanie.

  Ned hated clown speak, almost as much as clown smell.


  “Oh Ba-ba is very crossy, Eanie. As is Bessy.” The pirate-butcher stroked the meat-cleaver at his belt ominously. “The damned boy was nearly mine. With his help, I could have had an Engineer and a Medic. Now, find him, or I’ll have Sar-adin peel off your skin! AND TAKE A DAMNED BATH!”

  Ned used the butcher’s rage and the cowering clown talk to crawl by unheard. Finally at the vent for Barbarossa’s quarters, he peered into the room beyond and saw Kitty. It was only when he slipped through the grate and closed it behind him that he let himself breathe once more. The captain’s quarters were dimly lit, but Kitty’s pale skin and grey-white hair shone in the darkness. Her eyes were closed, her hands tied, and her body lay still. Ned’s chest tightened. Was he too late? Had she died at the hands of her captor?

  “Kitty, it’s me – Ned,” he whispered, standing over her. “Are you all right? Say something, Kitty …”

  “Well, of course it’s you, silly, I’m blind not demented!” beamed back the old woman as she sat up and smiled.

  “I’ve been so stupid. Thank goodness you’re OK, you looked so …”

  “Pretty? Oh Ned, really, I’m far too old for you! Tell me the truth, you’re after another reading, aren’t you? I would so love to slap your face …”

  She was frail, but she was still Kitty.

  “I’ve come to get you out of here, I just need to figure out these handcuffs and then I’ll … erm …”

  “What’s the weather like outside, dear? Will I need my umbrella?”

  Though cheery, the Farseer seemed unusually demented, and unlikely to help with Ned’s escape plan, which was a problem, because Ned didn’t have one. Just then, out in the corridor, he heard footsteps approaching the door, most probably Barbarossa and his Demon-butler. Ned looked about frantically for somewhere to hide, then he heard the welcome squeak of Whiskers over by a cupboard.

  He picked him up quietly and popped him into his pocket. The cupboard was bare except for a few hanging clothes and a belt. The belt held a holster, which in turn held a Hidden-made musket. Ned patted Kitty on the arm, scrambled desperately into the cupboard and closed the door behind him. Squinting through its keyhole, he saw the cabin doors burst open as two of Barbarossa’s men approached and took positions on either side of the Farseer. As big as they were, they still looked as if they were worried the old lady might spring up from her seat and fly out the door. Ned found it all a bit ridiculous. Were they really that frightened of an old woman? A moment later, Barbarossa entered and began pacing the room, closely followed by Mr Sar-adin, who took his place behind her, before starting to talk.

  “Dear old Kitty. How long will this foolishness go on? Your loyalty to him is endearing, but I will find a way in. I always find a way … in.”

  “Foul, stinking Demon. How long are you going to prattle on for?” teased back Kitty. “What you need is a hug and a better role model.”

  The Demon-butler scowled.

  “We do not have time for this, witch! If you will not give us the assistance that we seek, then I will meld with your mind and make you.”

  “Oh, please! You Demons are all the same, all big demands and no manners!” cackled Kitty.

  The Demon shot a glance at his Master, who nodded.

  “Very well.”

  Mr Sar-adin unlocked Kitty’s cuffs then lit a dark blue candle. Next, he took something from a silk bag and burnt it over the flame. It smelt vaguely of incense mixed with cloves. Holding his hands by her temples he began to chant, much to Kitty’s apparent amusement.

  “Am, ra, tra-va. Am, ra, tra-va,” repeated the Demon, over and over.

  “Tra-la, Da-di-da,” mocked the old lady in return.

  The candle seemed to suck the light from the room, while the smell of burning grew stronger. Ned covered his nose. Both Kitty’s and the Demon-butler’s eyes closed for a moment and Mr Sar-adin fell silent. When they opened again, the whites of both sets of eyes had turned to an oily black.

  “There, Kitty. I have found you.”

  The old lady remained silent.

  “I can feel it all, yes … yes. Open the door, witch, open the door …”

  Without warning, Kitty smiled, and Mr Sar-adin howled. Ned felt the temperature in the room soar and the two of them broke free from their trance.

  “Arrgh!” screamed the Demon, falling to the floor in violent, pained spasms. “Get out of my heaaaaaaad!”

  “Enough!” roared Barbarossa. “Take him downstairs and plug him back into the heat-generators. If he can’t break an old woman, at least he can power the ship!”

  Mr Sar-adin was still babbling incoherently when one of the men dragged him out of the room.

  “So little Kitty-Kat still has claws?” boomed Barbarossa, pulling up a stool.

  The Farseer did not answer back. Instead she played with her Hello Kitty hair band, as though an innocent schoolgirl, idly passing the time.

  “There are plenty of ways to skin a cat, Kitty. And you know I know all of them.”

  “Really? Well it seems to me that the great Barbarossa can’t even turn a boy, not with a Demon’s magic or his sugared treats, not even with a spirit-knot!” said the old witch, now very present and in the moment.

  Barbarossa fumed. “The girl must die. The boy will lead me to her, and you, old woman, will help him do it!”

  “I’ve already told you – you’ll never break him, Barba. With or without the ring – or me – he won’t tell. I’ve seen inside his heart. He’s his parents’ son through and through.”

  Ned realised with a shock that they were talking about him, though he didn’t really understand how he was supposed to lead anyone to the Medic. He didn’t even know what she looked like, never mind where she was.

  “You’re wrong – I never fail. I’ll get my hands on one of those rings just as easily as I did the boy. As for you, you are not the only Farseer behind the Veil. If you won’t help me, I shall find another …”

  The remaining henchman produced a set of sharp, polished instruments. Barbarossa picked out a spike and studied it carefully. The truth, thought Ned. How could he have been so stupid? Ned had been wrong about him in Shalazaar. Barbarossa wasn’t a rough pirate, or a butcher. He was a surgeon, a precise and clinical mastermind who would do and say anything to get what he wanted.

  “Now, why don’t we try again?”

  He raised the tip of the spike to Kitty’s face and Ned reached for the musket beside him. He didn’t know how to fire a gun. But even thirteen-year-old boys can kick open a cupboard door, no matter how scared they are of it actually opening.

  “Let … her … go,” he stammered, pointing the weapon directly at Barbarossa.

  His target lowered the spike and turned around slowly. He looked unnervingly calm for a man with a musket pointed at his head.

  “Now, what did I say about wandering around on your own? You could get yourself hurt, my lad.”

  Though Ned’s thoughts had become his own once more, he found himself weakening again, under the full weight of Barbarossa’s gaze.

  “You, you let her go, or … I’ll shoot.”

  The remaining lackey began inching his way towards Ned, till Barbarossa motioned for him to stop.

  “You talk as if you have a choice,” said the surgeon, reaching into his pocket and pulling out Ned’s ribbony bundle of hair. “I’m impressed you resisted for so long. Even in your sleep you managed to stop yourself from turning completely. But I have great plans for you, Ned, far beyond the finding of silly little girls. Now, turning the mind is what I do. I enjoy it. So … point the gun at Kitty’s head. If she doesn’t say what I want to hear, you will pull the trigger.”

  Ned felt his arm move, like a puppet on a string. As much as he willed it to stop, the musket was now pointing directly at Kitty.

  “For the last time, old woman, will you help me find her?”

  “No,” smiled the Farseer, before turning to Ned. “It’s all right, dear, don’t be frightened. This will all be over in a secon
d.”

  “As you wish. Ned, kill her.”

  Tears welled up in Ned’s eyes as he fought his own finger pressing down on the musket’s trigger. Barbarossa’s eyes grew wide.

  “By all that’s Dark, how are you doing this? You’re just a boy. No one is strong enough to resist me, Ned, no one!” His face seethed and twisted with renewed effort.

  And he was right.

  “I … I can’t stop it! I’m sorry, Kitty, I’m really sorry …”

  BOOM.

  The Truth

  Time slowed. To Ned’s right, the wall flashed with light, before exploding inwards. Through a mess of fire and tearing metal came first a cannonball, then George. Barbarossa’s face flickered, from surprise to anger as the metal projectile hit him and he was flung to the other side of his cabin. His remaining henchman was still standing; he lifted his dagger and thrust it towards the giant ape’s chest. But it might as well have been a sewing needle for all the good it did him. George roared, a roar so deafening, so loud, so utterly enraged that the henchman dropped his weapon and curled to a whimpering ball on the floor.

  The great ape sniffed at the air. A second later his powerful hands had scooped up both Kitty and Ned before retrieving the boy’s spirit-knot from their dazed but still breathing captor’s hand. How Barbarossa had survived a direct hit to the chest, or how Kitty had known the ape was coming, was unimportant; Ned’s nightmare was over.

  Holding them both tight, George leapt back through the hole in the Daedalus’s side. Two of the elder Tortellinis were waiting outside, hovering in the air, the engine of their small scout-ship revved and ready. George landed on its deck with a wood-splintering thud. The open-topped vessel had no cabin or hold and the ape used his two great arms to shield his precious cargo from the wind while they made their hasty exit.

  “I told you, my dear chap,” George rumbled, “if you ever saw that man again to either find me or run. Well, you wouldn’t come to me, so here I am.”

  With the cover of night and a little Veil-born magic, their fast moving scout-ship was in and out before the Daedalus’s crew knew what had hit them. By then it seemed Kitty’s extraordinary mind had already reimagined their ordeal as some sort of pleasure cruise.