Shadows of Tockland Read online

  Shadows of Tockland

  by

  Jeffrey Aaron Miller

  Chapter One

  Audition

  David spotted him first, the old man with the scabs on his head lurching out of his seat on the front row, clapping his big, gnarled hands as he shuffled toward the stage. Bubbles the Clown was the current performer, a petite woman in a loose, silvery costume. She had a bamboo pole balanced on her open palm, a large ceramic plate spinning on top of it. The tent was filled to overflowing, but the attention of most people was drawn upward to the wobbling plate. Consequently, the old man got all the way to the stage without anyone hindering him. He gave one last clap, did a little stutter step on his bare feet, and lunged at Bubbles, snagging one of her billowing pant legs.

  Startled, Bubbles tried to pull away, and the bamboo pole tipped to one side. She took a corrective step to keep the plate from falling, but the old man held fast, gurgling and hooting. The audience laughed as if it were all part of the act, but young David Morr, watching from the shadows of a back corner, tucked his hands into his armpits as a wave of fear-induced nausea swept through him. He wondered if he was the only one who heard the sickness in the old man’s voice, the threat of violence in that strange hooting sound.

  Finally, another clown leapt through a part in the curtains and landed on the stage just behind Bubbles. Telly, the ringmaster, a tiny man in a top hat and tails, stubby fingers covered in white silk gloves, black shoes polished to a mirror shine; he crossed the stage as nimbly as a pouncing cat. The scabby-headed old man gave a throaty snarl and pulled at Bubbles, forcing her toward the edge of the stage, foam dripping from the corners of his mouth. He would have dragged her down, David had no doubt, and then he would have pulled her right out of the tent while the whole crowd, still clapping and smiling and patting each other on the back, did nothing about it. But Telly fell upon him. He had a walking stick of dark, knotted wood, and he took it in both hands, tucking it against his body. As he approached Bubbles, he leapt into a somersault, sailing through the gap between her legs. Then, in mid-spin, he whipped the walking stick over his head and used his forward momentum to bring it down against the old man’s forehead.

  The crack of the bulbous handle against the man’s skull echoed in the tent like a gunshot, and the laughter of the crowd turned to gasps. David hated all forms of violence. He had seen so much of it in his life. It made his heart pound in his chest, made the blood rush to his head. He hunkered down in the corner, wanting to avert his gaze but afraid not to see. The old man raised both hands above his head in a gesture of surrender and fell backward, slamming into one of the low wooden benches that lined the inside of the tent and sliding limply onto the dirt floor.

  A third clown stepped through the curtain, the biggest of the lot, with a grizzled face and a crooked smile. The little one had introduced him earlier in the show as Touches. A barrel-chested giant of a man, he had arms like massive hams and an enormous mustache that billowed out on either side of his face. He stepped around Bubbles and hopped off the stage, bowing to the audience. Then he stooped to retrieve the old man, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground.

  “Pardon the mess, ladies and gentlemen,” Touches said in a voice harsh as gravel. “Let me take this one out back and show him a thing or two. I’m the only one around here that gets to grab the ladies!”

  This brought another round of laughter and applause and a burst of raucous cheers. He grabbed the old man’s bare, grime-caked foot and proceeded to drag him down the aisle. As they passed near David’s corner, he saw the bloody welt above the old man’s left eye, saw the tracks of purple scabs running in uneven rows across his scalp and the slurry of saliva and sickness dribbling from his mouth. Touches had a massive white face, grease paint mingled with sweat dripping down his thick neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He glanced in David’s direction as he passed, if only for a second, and David ducked his head.

  “A minor interruption, ladies and gentlemen,” Telly said from onstage. “Pay no heed! Pay no heed!” He stood beside Bubbles, making flourishes with his hands to draw attention back to the performers, but most of the audience continued watching Touches drag the old man out of the tent.

  Finally, the small clown gave a loud whistle, flipped the top hat off his head and threw it into the air. It hit the spinning plate, knocking it off the pole. As it fell, Bubbles stepped out of the way, the small clown tumbled backward, narrowly avoiding her, and caught the plate in his hand just before it shattered on the stage. With one more deft somersault, he wound up on his feet, balanced the plate on the tip of his finger and gave another dramatic flourish with the other hand. The crowd cheered.

  The knot of fear in David’s belly melted, and he joined in the applause. Telly bowed and walked over to retrieve the hat, passing the plate to Bubbles. She took it, curtseyed, and danced offstage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” Telly said, setting the hat back on his head. “This concludes our evening’s entertainment, and we do thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your enthusiasm.”

  Shouts of approval turned to cries of Encore! and More, more! The tiny clown held up his hands.

  “Please, please,” he said. “We’ve given all we have to give.”

  But the cries persisted. Telly glanced over his shoulder, then back at the audience, and winked.

  “Ah, well, then again, we might have one more act waiting in the wings,” he said, tapping a finger against the side of his nose.

  Now most of the people were out of their seats, pumping fists in the air.

  “One more act,” they chanted. “One more act!”

  David dared a step out of the corner, if only to get a better look.

  “One more act!”

  “Very well, dear friends,” the tiny clown announced, “I present to you the one, the only, the inimitable, Cakey the Clown!”

  The name meant nothing to them, but their cheers intensified into howls. Suddenly, a flash of silver came from backstage. A knife, sailing end over end, flew through the air. The handle of the knife hit the small clown’s top hat, knocking it off his head hard enough to send it into the crowd, while the knife rebounded and landed on the stage. There was a wrestling match in the audience as half a dozen people fought for possession of the hat, and Telly, his baldness revealed, clapped both hands over his head and dashed offstage.

  Cakey sprang out from behind the curtain. Tall and lanky, with a shock of orange hair and a patchwork costume of eye-straining colors, he was a sight to behold. His make-up was particularly neat, smooth as porcelain, with a single blue eyebrow, half as tall as his forehead, stretching from temple to temple, a small green circle on the tip of his nose and a broad, blood-red mouth that curled into a grin on the left side and sank into a frown on the right. The crowd shouted his name and flailed their arms at him, as he took a great leap to the edge of the stage. David saw the glint of blades and realized Cakey had knives tucked between the fingers of both hands. While he was still in mid-air, he tossed the knives, all of them, carelessly above his head. Straight up they went, some sailing high enough to touch the canvas roof.

  “Gimme back the hat,” he shouted to the crowd. He had a coarse and rasping voice, but it boomed in the tent. “Give it back, or I’ll stick the lot of you!”

  As the knives fell, he caught them, one by one, and began to juggle them. Two, then four, then all eight, under his leg, over his shoulder, behind his back.

  “I said gimme back the hat, you rubes,” he cried.

  From deep within the pressing crowd, the hat came sailing back. Cakey, still juggling the knives, stepped to one side and caught the brim between his teeth, then dropped the hat, caught it on the end o
f his oversized shoe and kicked it aside.

  David felt the cry of excitement burst out of him, and because he was so used to silence, he had no practice at making respectable loud noises. The cry came out as a strangled squawk. A few in the back of the crowd glanced in his direction with disapproving frowns, as if they thought he was mocking them.

  Telly crept out from backstage, walking on tiptoes, scooped up his hat and slipped up behind Cakey. Though some in the audience pointed and laughed, Cakey did not seem to notice him. The small clown had his strange walking stick in one hand, and, as Cakey continued to juggle, oblivious, he jabbed him right in the small of the back with the narrow end.

  “They got me,” Cakey cried, flinging the knives high into the air and stumbling backward.

  Some of the younger folk covered their eyes. David heard a great, heaving gasp escape his mouth and pressed both hands to his lips. Cakey glanced over his shoulder, saw the small clown standing there grinning and took a swing at him. And then the knives fell all around him, flashes of silver on gleaming blades. Cakey acted as if he did not notice them, but somehow they missed, impaling themselves in the wooden stage one after the other with a series of loud thumps. Some landed within inches of his feet. The last one he caught between thumb and forefinger, twirling it around his fingers. Then he turned to the audience and bowed.

  “Thank you ever so much for your kind reception,” he said.

  He bent down to retrieve the rest of the knives, as the audience cheered and called his name. The curtain fell, the crowd went wild, and the whole tent shook with the force of it. The applause went on for long minutes, until even David was swept up in it. Finally, the curtain parted again, and all of the performers took the stage. Bubbles came out first, small and shapely, a white face with small kissing lips painted in bright crimson over her real lips. She curtseyed daintily. Touches came out next. Somehow, he had slipped backstage after disposing of the old scabby-headed man. A giant compared to Bubbles, half again as tall, in a button-up blue shirt and loose khaki pants, he cut an imposing figure. Then came Cakey, leaping across the stage, landing on one foot and sinking into a deep bow. Telly appeared last, all of four feet tall, his makeup consisting of a white face with a black circle around his lips and two small triangles under his eyes. The performers linked hands and bowed as one.

  “The Klown Kroo thanks you, one and all,” Telly said. “Have a wonderful evening, ladies and gentlemen, good night and, until we meet again, goodbye.”

  And with that, they turned and dashed offstage, and the curtain closed behind them. The applause persisted. David clapped until his hands hurt, cheered until his voice broke. Only when some in the back grew bored and began to leave did he remember his place, and he stepped back into the corner and slunk his hands into his pockets. He remained there, huddled in the shadows, as the audience slowly filed out of the tent. Eventually, he was the only one left, gazing at rows of empty benches and scattered bits of trash. The air still felt electric, and he did not want to leave. More than that, he knew—it had come to him early in the show, like a candle flame awaking in a dark room—what he had to do.

  He was still there when the small clown reappeared, stepping through the curtain to survey the empty tent. His gaze wandered the rows until they happened upon David.

  “Hey, you there,” he said, pointing with his walking stick. “Show’s over, kid. It’s been over for half an hour. Go home.”

  David rose and stepped out of the corner. “Can I…?” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Can I stay?”

  The clown laughed. “Of course you can’t stay,” he said. “We’re taking the whole tent down. Go home. You got your money’s worth.”

  David did not move. This was his chance, his only chance, and, terrified as he was, he would not waste it. If he walked out of the tent now, it was back to the misery and drudgery of life with Vern. But the small clown had an unfriendly look on his face, a cold glint in his eyes, and David withered.

  “Look, do I need to get Karl to come out here and haul you away?” Telly said.

  “I wanna…I wanna…” The word kept sticking in his throat, but David tortured it out. “I want to per-per…perform!” He said the word too loudly and winced. Vern would have smacked him for it.

  “What are you talking about, you rube?” Telly said with a sneer. He turned, pulled back a fold of the curtain and poked his head backstage. “Karl, get out here. Drag this dumb kid outside, would you?”

  From behind the curtain came the gruff reply, “Be right there.”

  “I want to be a clown,” David said. “I can…I can…” He took a step toward the stage, hit the corner of one of the benches with his shin and fell in a heap.

  The small clown laughed himself into a coughing fit. “Yeah, that’s what we need,” he said, doubled over, clutching his belly. “A clown who can’t speak and can’t walk across a room. Get out of here.”

  “No. Wait. Watch,” David said, picking himself up.

  Touches appeared, rolling up his shirt sleeves to reveal the bulging muscles of his forearms. “What’s the problem here, boss?”

  David knew he had only a few seconds to prove himself before Touches—the small clown had called him Karl—dragged him outside and roughed him up. He shook his arms and legs to limber them up.

  “Kid’s wasting my time, Karl,” Telly said. “Get him out.”

  “Sure thing,” Karl said. He grabbed the fingers of one hand in the other and pulled until his knuckles cracked. Then he climbed down off the stage.

  David, trying not to see Karl out of the corner of his eye, did a little hop and took off running down the aisle. He had practiced it so many times, it felt like second nature. A half dozen steps and he leapt into a round-off. His palms hit the dirt, first the left, then the right, twisting his body in mid-air. The round-off led into back handsprings, three complete rotations, before finishing with a solid landing on his feet, kicking up a plume of dust.

  And then Karl’s arms, thick as tree trunks, wrapped around his torso and drew him in.

  “Alright, kid, enough with the tricks,” he said. “We’re the performers here. Let’s go.”

  He crushed David to his chest and hoisted him off the ground. David, though winded, his wrists aching from the handsprings, laughed. Somehow, despite a lifetime of cowering in corners, he had done what he’d set out to do. He felt giddy.

  Karl had him halfway down the aisle when Telly spoke up.

  “Hey, wait a second, Karl,” he said. When Karl kept going, he spoke louder. “I said wait, you big dummy.”

  Karl stopped, grunted unhappily, and turned to the stage. Telly had both hands on his walking stick, leaning forward, eyes narrowed.

  “Kid, where’d you learn to do flips like that?”

  “Taught myself,” David said. The press of Karl’s arms around his torso made speech difficult, and he struggled to take a breath afterward.

  Telly frowned, tapped his walking stick on the stage and nodded. “Alright, put him down.” Karl did not move. “Drop the kid!”

  Karl opened his arms, and David fell, landing off-balance on his feet and sliding onto his butt. He picked himself up without complaint and dusted off the seat of his pants.

  “It was just a little flip-flop, nothing any of us couldn’t do,” Karl said. “Why waste your time with it? Let me drag him out.”

  Telly tapped the walking stick again then jabbed it at Karl. “I didn’t ask your opinion, did I? Go out back and help Gooty.”

  Karl grunted again, pushed past David, clambered up on stage and disappeared through the curtains. Telly stood a moment in silence, staring at David. He reached into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief, drawing it across his forehead and wiping away some of the grease paint.

  “Taught yourself, you say?”

  “Yes, sir,” David said. His giddiness wilted into uncertainty, and he dropped his gaze to the dusty ground. “I’ve got this old book on gymnastics, found it in a tru
nk inside an abandoned house when I was a kid.”

  “You’re still a kid. Show me that trick again.”

  David nodded and turned. His moment of confidence had passed, and he knew his only hope now was to pretend nobody else was in the tent with him. Alone, as he had always been when practicing. He shook his arms and legs again, took a deep breath and attempted another round-off into back handsprings. It was his best move and his most impressive, but it didn’t go quite as well this time. He lost his footing on the final flip and missed his landing, crashing to the ground on his back and kicking his legs up over his head.

  Telly tapped the walking stick and chuckled. “That’s pretty good, kid. What do you call that?”

  David picked himself up again, wincing at what would no doubt be fresh bruises on his backside. “Round-off and back handspring,” he said. “According to the book.”

  “And what do you call that spectacular crash at the end?”

  David attempted a smile, but it crumbled. He felt a flush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s called messing up,” he said.

  “Let me tell you something. The rubes will enjoy the handsprings, but they’ll really love the crash. That’s your real gag right there.”

  “Rubes?”

  “The audience,” Telly said. “The people. We call ‘em rubes.” He sat down on the edge of the stage and laid the walking stick across his lap. “Alright, what do you want?”

  “What do I want?”

  Telly frowned. “Look, kid, you didn’t risk Karl’s wrath just so I could see your little trick there and give you a pat on the head. What do you want?”

  “I want to be a clown,” he said.

  “Fine, no one’s stopping you from being a clown. Go forth with my blessing.”

  “I mean, I want to join your clown troupe and go with you. I can do other things, too.”

  “Can you fall down consistently?”

  David wasn’t sure how to take the question. If Telly hadn’t looked so serious when asking it, David would have thought he was being made fun of. “I don’t usually fall,” he replied. “That was a mistake.”