TR: 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nothing In Jest

A blue ball rose into the air, eclipsing the sun for a moment before gravity pulled it down again. A bright red ball rose soon after, followed by a green one, then a violet one. They cycled in continuance, a perpetual round of spheres chasing each other. The hand moved fluidly up and down as the balls made contact with the palms, only to be released instantly again and again. The man wavered back and forth, a half concentrated grin spread across his painted face as he balanced atop his unicycle. A generous crowd had gathered around the mezzanine to watch the strange performer. He juggled four balls in one hand as his other hand span two balls atop of each other on an extended index finger. He began to circle around the square on his unicycle, making sure not to run into any of the small children running about at the perimeter of the audience.

“Come now, come now!” He shouted to the crowd, not making any specific eye contact. “I have yet to perform the most daring stunt of my routine!”

He circled around the square once more and made his way back to the center where he swayed back and forth in place.

“If any of you feel kind enough as to make a heartfelt donation to this cause,” he said to the audience as he turned in a circle, “my little friend Jingles will be coming around to accept your good acts of charity.”

He smiled and motioned with his head to a crowd of children who had gathered together in a cluster near the inner circle of the audience, making a ruckus over something between them. Seeing so many children there that day made his chest flutter with excitement. Oh, how he did not want to disappoint them! The man threw his four juggling balls high into the air and quickly stuck his fingers in his mouth, blowing a terse whistle that cut through the air like a knife. The balls came back down and he easily retrieved them, cycling them back into juggling rotation. A squeaking sound came from amidst the huddle of children and a small monkey emerged from the pandemonium, sneaking through a small boy’s legs. Jingles wore a small red vest embezzled with flashy sequins and a cap of the same colour with a gold tassel atop, fastened with an elastic strap around his chin. The audience giggled at the site of the funny creature as he ran towards the man in the center. Jingles stopped near the performer, looking up at him. The monkey turned back to the audience and jumped into the air, performing a full three hundred and sixty degree turn. The audience laughed and cheered at the monkey. The performer made a clicking sound and nodded at the monkey. Jingles removed his cap from his head and made his way around the circle with outreaching arms, accepting any donations. People began to gush over the small furry animal, giving whatever they could. The juggling man smiled to himself.

Works every time. He thought.

He cleared his throat. “And now I will perform my death defying stunt…” The man paused. “A stunt,” he panned his eyes across the audience, “which I have yet to perfect.”

A merchant across from the mezzanine looked up from his stand to the boasting performer, shaking his head as he worked at polishing a silver bangle.

The market bustled with thousands, many tourists with burgeoning pockets and coins to spare–his target audience. He had chosen the mezzanine for that sole purpose: it bisected the causeway and any and all that passed through had to come through to reach the markets. All he needed from them was a stray glimpse or lean his way and he would easily reel them in for the spectacle. And then they–and more importantly, their coin–would be his.

“If I could have all your attention, I will begin my act!” The man yelled to his crowd.

A middle-aged man in the front elbowed the man next to him, whispering something into his ear, the two snickering. A woman plopped a shiny dollar into Jingles’s cap and Jingles turned back to his master to watch the act. He held the cap full of money up to his chest as to protect it. The man with the painted face paced back and forth on his cycle, all the while juggling two separate series of balls. He slung one leg across the seat of the unicycle to the other side, pedaling with one foot. He slowly placed his free foot on the open edge of the seat and lifted himself up on one leg, slanting the bike down on a steep angle to balance out the displaced weight. He placed his other foot beside it, now fully standing atop, still juggling with both hands. The audience clapped and he gave a slight bow, as much as he could while still juggling.

“Now, like a sparrow, to the sky I say! I’m sick of the ground, I come your way!”

The man threw all his juggling balls high into the air and he launched himself off the unicycle. He arched his back and threw his feet up over his head, executing a backflip. He held his breath as the earth spun below him, the audience oohing and awing. His feet came back around, landing deftly on top of the seat, though he had to wave his hands to control the momentum of his maneuver. The unicycle had begun to tip over from the force, as expected. His left foot caught the edge of the seat and the unicycle jerked from the impact. He caught the other edge of the seat with his right foot and he shifted his weight the other way to counteract the toppling cycle. The cycle stabilized.

“I…I landed it!” He shouted in amazement, appearing to be as shocked as the audience at the success of his own stunt.

“I landed it! I landed it!” He shouted to his crowd. He held up his hands triumphantly. “After three years of failures, ladies and gentlemen, I finally…”

The man looked up as his juggling balls came down on him.

“Uh oh.”

One of the large balls smacked him in the face before the others came down on him like a barrage of oversized hailstones. His balance faltered and he fell off the cycle, tumbling to the ground. The front row of the crowd gasped as the unicycle wheeled toward them on its dying breaths of pure adrenaline. The crowd parted frantically as the bike toppled over, landing on the flagstones with a defeated kerplunk, its wheel still spinning dizzily as friction took its death hold. The performer slowly pushed himself off the ground, bruised and ashamed. He blew one of the tassels of his hat off his face but a juggling ball came down and struck him on the noggin, knocking the piece back where it was. The audience burst into boos and curses and the sour crowd began to disband. Children ran around the fallen man laughing and pointing at him, some even mocking his stunt by pretending to balance and then fall on their rears. He hung his head, glaring at the ground as he brooded over yet another failure. Having his lovelies taunt him so only made it that much worse. How could they be so cruel? Didn’t they know that he did this all for them? Tears filled his eyes and he held up a hand at them, unable to look them in the eyes.

“Please…please just…just go home. I can’t stand for you to see me like this.”

One of the older boys reefed off one of the performer’s gloves and threw it in the street in front of him before an adult ushered them away. The painted face man looked up through watery eyes to his dejected article of clothing, turning to see the children run off, laughing joyfully. Not paying attention, a boy accidentally ran into a barrel at one of the vendors’ stands, knocking the barrel over and spilling hundreds of crisp heritage apples across the mezzanine. The pigeons and gulls wasted no time at the fortuitous occasion and swarmed the fruit exodus like a pack of ravenous blugl. Seeing his wares–and coin–being gobbled up voraciously, the vendor erupted into a fury. The little boy began to cry and the man quickly restrained himself when he noticed others staring at the commotion that had just begun at his stand. He stopped yelling and thought better to console the boy, playing the good Samaritan card. He offered the boy an apple and patted his head, sending the lad off with a beaming smile.

The painted face man grimaced at the sight.

“That little grifter.”

He sighed and stood back up, collecting his unicycle, glove, and juggling balls. Jingles waddled up to him, his vest bulging with coins, making metallic clinking sounds as he moved. The performer glanced down at his furry compatriot.

“Have you come to mock me, too?” The man asked the primate, wiping a tear from his cheek with his remaining gloved hand.

Jingles made several crude sounds and threw his cap down in the dirt between them. He turned and scampered off into the square, jingling all the way, disappearing into the sea of people. The man’s jaw dropped as he watched his former business partner skitter off with his earnings. He had a mind to chase after the thieving capuchin but decided against it, realizing he had already been degraded enough that day, let alone to be seen chasing after a primate in a vest throughout town.

He sighed and turned back to his belongings.

“Never thought I’d get blown off by a monkey…”

As he collected the last of his balls, he paused when he heard someone yelling. He looked towards the sound and saw people in the crowd jumping aside as someone came barreling through. The performer stood back up and watched curiously as a young man came into view. As he neared, the painted face man could see that he was not actually a man at all but a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He was shouting at people for help, what sounded like pleading. He zipped back and forth between bodies as he desperately attempted to get the attention of passersby but was only met with those who either ignored or dodged him, or gestured what could only mean no thank you as they went about their business. The boy wasn’t selling anything so it was certainly strange behavior for someone in the market. Although it was possible he was another one of those con-artists who worked in pairs; one distracted the victim while another performed their slight of hand or whatever the trick was, lifting a purse or wallet or what-have-you. The thought of yet another charlatan infuriated him and he sneered disapprovingly before he turned back to pack up his things.

A large man came man up from behind the boy, his shoulder clipping him as he passed, causing him to lose balance and stumble into a flock of pigeons pecking along the walk. The birds scattered into the air as the boy stumbled forward, stepping on an uneaten apple as he lost his balance and fell face first on to the ground. He lifted himself up slowly, spitting out dirt and apple mulch. The painted face man heard the commotion of birds as they scattered and he glanced over between shoving balls in his backpack, seeing a disheartened young man struggling back to his feet.

He shook his head. “I know how that feels.”

A breeze blew up from the seawall and the painted face man looked past the boy to the cerulean ocean rolling in past the causeway which ran around the entire perimeter of the town. Sailboats zipped about in the easterlies, sea spray dashing against their hulls and trawlers and seiners moved lazily over the gentle ebb of the waves as they worked steadfastly toward their daily quota. The distant toll of a buoy could be heard every ten seconds or so against the intermittent chatter of the gulls and The layout of Symphonia was such that the market district lie outside the large wall known as Old Tom, named after the architect who had designed it thousands of years prior. Old Tom divided the causeway—the commercial and industrial districts—from the residential quarters. No one knew quite why it was designed that way but the running consensus was that Symphonia may have once been a military garrison and the vendors and merchants who visited or set up shop were disallowed into the base, when it had been one. But Symphonia was far from a military establishment at current. Now, the city was a major port town and diplomatic core, housing perhaps the largest Vos embassy in all of Atlandia. Naturally, Symphonia had many Vos who had integrated fairly seamlessly into the culture, though it wasn’t all fine and cosmopolitan in the painted-face man’s eyes; the famous Vos sword sensashiis juggled and danced their ways into more people’s pockets than he cared to acknowledge. He was all for healthy competition but this was something else altogether; it felt like a form of takeover. Symphonia just wasn’t the same as she had been when he first came over from the city nearly fifteen years prior. Why couldn’t things just stay the same? Why couldn’t people just keep to themselves? Why did everyone have to mix everything and be such a bother?  Was nothing sacred anymore? He sighed as he looked out at the familiar but never dull sight of the ocean one last time before he made his way over to a large fountain nearby. He shoved his juggling balls into a battered old backpack that lay against the base of the fountain, his mind played over the grand disaster that had just taken place.

“You had to forget about the balls again.” He sneered and threw the last ball in the bag. He pulled it shut with the ties.

“You always forget about the damn balls.”

From behind him he could hear the boy again. “Please, I just need someone to show me where a hospital is! Why aren’t you listening to me?”

The boy sounded almost hysterical. The performer looked back over his shoulder, not interested enough to fully divert his attention. He was persistent, he gave him that much.  The boy has resorted to pestering the vendors now; at that moment he was attempting to grab the attention of a particularly surly looking brute of a man at meat kiosk, though the proprietor was doing his damndest ignoring him, trying instead to focus on his customers. He handed one woman a paper bag and she nodded in thanks.

“A boy is dying! How can you just stand there and hand out meat! All I need to know is where your hospital is in this stupid town!”

The vendor shot the boy with a nasty glance. “Beat it kid. You’re scaring away my business.”

The vendor was a meaty man, in more ways than one, and the painted face man knew the  boy wouldn’t stand a chance if the vendor decided to make a move against him. What was the boy thinking? Didn’t he know that Symphonia hadn’t used hospitals for over three hundred years? Hadn’t he seen the med-bays laying all around the city core? What world was he living in?

“I’ll back off when you point me toward a hospital. What is wrong with you people?” The boy shouted.

People backed away from the ranting boy, gossiping among each other as they glanced over their shoulders, shooting him admonishing looks. The boy didn’t seem to care as he continued to yell angrily at them. The crowd around the vendor began to thin out as disgruntled citizens scuttled off, dissolving back into the throng. Seeing this effect, the vendor slammed his fist down on his cutting board.

“That’s it you little punk! What did I tell you?”

He grabbed a butcher knife from the sink and came around to the street. He stood several pinches taller than the boy and nearly a blade wider. Despite these odds, the boy remained in place, seemingly unaffected by the man’s threats.

“So…what? You’re going to chop me into pieces? Is that it? Just for asking where to find a hospital. ‘Cause that makes sense.”

The butcher pointed at the boy. “I gave you fair warning boy! We don’t want your kind roaming about here. It’s bad for business.”

“My kind? You mean starborn?” 

“I mean outsiders. I ent no racist.”

“Funny, from where I’m standing it’s really hard to tell the difference.”

The butcher growled. “For a boy ‘ose about to lose an arm, ye sure run yer mouth big.”

Brian shrugged. “Maybe it’s best you rough me up, then maybe someone will take me to a bloody hospital so I know where one is.”

“Enough of this bantering! If ye won’t bugger off then you’ll be leavin’ in a stretcher!”

The butcher roared as he lunged at the boy with the knife, swiping at him in a wide arc. The boy dodged aside easily and the knife struck one of the wooden posts of the stand which buckled from the force of impact, sagging over as the canvas awning shielding the storefront collapsed in on itself. The painted-face man watched in amusement from his place at the fountain as he watched the debacle unfold. The burly man turned back to the boy with a look of pure ferocity.

“Look at what you did to my shop! You’re going to pay for that!”

He attacked again with renewed purpose but the boy artfully dodged the butcher’s behemoth strikes with practiced precision. A small audience had formed around the spectacle, keeping a safe distance from the slicing tyrant. The jester tssked as he watched the hapless crowd swooning over what would be the city’s next victim of cheap entertainment.

“Anything for a free show with this lot.”

The boy ducked under a swipe that was likely a decapitation in another timeline, using the opportunity to get behind the butcher. He kicked the large man in the back and the butcher fell on his face, dropping the knife as he hit pavement. As the he reached out to retrieve his knife, a boot came from the side and kicked the knife out of reach. The boy stood above him, glaring down at him.

“No knives.”

The fallen butcher swiped at the boy’s legs but he saw it coming from a leave away and easily jumped over the strike. The burly man got to his feet and the boy raised his fists in fighting stance. The butcher looked at the boy for a daft moment then, when he realized the boy was serious he hunkered over, grabbing his gut in a laughing fit. The crowd joined in in unanimous jeering and heckling. Though he was clearly not the fan favorite, the boy remained apathetic to their judgement and stood patiently, fists at the ready. The butcher stood up straight, wiping a tear from his eye.

“You…fight me?” The butcher suppressed another chuckle that burbled up. “Come now, boy; I was only going to cut off a limb. That would be nothing as bad as if I got me hands on ye.”

The boy just stared at the hulk from behind his guard. “The thing is, you won’t get your hands on me.”

The butcher shook his head, his grin fading to serious. “Go on. Go home ye little shit, whatever dung heap that may be. You’ve done enough damage as it is. Take the pass and leave with your breath in yer chest.”

The butcher turned to go back to his kiosk and there was a general wave of disappointed sounds from the audience as the show came to a close.

“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. Even if I have to beat if out of you.”

The butcher stopped, his shoulders visibly tensing. He turned back to the boy, fists clenching until his knuckles went white. There was a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Well then. Being a business man…”

The butcher span around and hurled his giant fist at the boy’s face. The boy’s eyes went wide and he ducked his head just as the fist sailed above him, coming so close he could feel the air blow past his head. He looked up and saw a window—the butcher’s midsection fully exposed. He pulled his arm back and threw his weight into the Butcher’s stomach, his fist connecting with the hardened abdomen. The Butcher grunted as the air exploded out of him and the monster launched backwards five blades into an adjacent newspaper stand, knocking the stand askew, his back slamming into the stone wall of the causeway beyond. Symphonia Oratorios flew about in every which way, pages raining down on to the flagstones of the street and around the motionless man slumped against the wall, unconscious.

A hush fell over the crowd, the music stopping as everyone around the square looked on in bewilderment. The painted face man’s jaw dropped, looking as stunned as the rest. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. He had heard stories about the strength of Bannamud warriors but this…this was just a kid. But the slack-jawed awe was quickly supplanted by the auspicious crow of the golden cock, thousands upon thousands of coins raining down from the clouds of burgeoning purses, the beautiful symphony of tinkling against the cobblestones at his feet. The image played out in his mind; oh what he could do with a sidearm like that! He would never have to juggle another ball in his life, that much he knew. The painted face man didn’t know if it was magick, drugs or something else he was seeing, but the boy clearly had a gift. And gifts drew eyes, eyes connected to hands, and hands reached into pockets. Yes, the warrior boy was a little…old for his tastes, but he was down a monkey and his trousers were just a tad lighter than he would have liked, after his simian usurper had absconded with his month’s earnings, so beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that. The painted face man quickly gathered his things and hurried over to the mezzanine.

The boy stared at his balled fist, his attention shifting to the sea of stunned onlookers around him. Suddenly, as if just then realizing what had transpired, he looked as stunned as them.

“I…uh, I didn’t mean to..”

“He’s one of them! Kill him!” someone in the audience shouted.

The crowd burst into an uproar and the boy backed away.

“What? One of who?”

The mob began to walk towards them, a crazed look in their eyes. Something had set them off.

“You have no place out here.” A sun-beaten man near the front said, probably a sailor. He withdrew a machete from his belt. “We’ve been giving the offerings, as promised. You were supposed to stay in that bloody hell-hole. That was the agreement!”

The boy had no idea what the man was talking about. He backed up until he was against the wall. He held up his hands, pleadingly.

“Just wait a second…who do you think I am? I just want…” The boy stammered.

A small subsection of the audience formed a file and came at him, weapons being drawn from holsters and belts, a veritable pitchfork riot.

A voice bellowed out from the side. “Wait!”

A man pushed through the mob. “Wait! Just hold on a moment!”

The painted-face man pushed his way out into the space between the advancing mob and the boy.

“He’s not one of them!” The man shouted.

The sailor raised his machete at the painted-face man and motioned the man to move aside. “Why do you defend this…monster? You know as well as we do that they are a threat to our community—to our safety! Besides, they’re breaking their oath by being out here. Why should you care what happens to it? What is your connection to this?”

The painted-face man looked flustered. “Me? What? None!”

The sailor growled and pressed forward again, apparently not appeased by the answer.

The performer raised his hands. “I mean…I do! I do have a relationship. To him, I mean. Uh, not the others. They are…monsters, as you say. This boy, he’s…”

The painted-face man glanced at the boy who looked like an animal trapped in a cage.

“He’s my nephew!”

The crowd stopped momentarily.

“Yes, yes he’s my nephew, and he’s…”

The sailor leaned forward expectantly. The painted-face man paused, stuck in thought. He looked at the boy who nodded encouragement. The performer turned back to the crowd who grew more agitated by the microsecond, their weapons eager to prod, pummel and puncture.

“He’s… retarded.” The painted-face man said finally.

The sailor frowned at the man, lowering his weapon slowly. He exchanged glances with the woman beside him who just shook her head in confusion. The boy did not look impressed.

“Uh, I appreciate the help and all, but I don’t think you can say…”

“Shut up, will you! I’m trying to save your antihero ass right now, if you didn’t notice.” The painted face man hissed under his breath.

“Yes, he suffers from, uh, learning, um…disadvantages and…er, it affects the uh, uh…speech part of the brain. You know the um…radial…radius, in the interlobular…nucleo…region. Complex.”

The crowd just stood idle as they processed the information, giving each other confused sideways glances. Seeing that his ruse was quickly expiring, the painted-face man continued.

“Funny you should mention that…” He walked over to the boy and put his arm around his shoulders. “I was just on my way to go home and take him into the, uh, retard…um…facility—yes, the retard facility—in, um, Brazen City, but he must have gotten out somehow. Though I could have sworn I locked the door this morning on my way out.”

He turned to the boy and gave him a look of scorn. Clearly not willing to go along with it, the boy just glared at him silently.

“How many times have I told you? Windows are not for jumping out of. What do we use windows for?”

The boy crossed his arms. “Throwing foul-mouthed clowns out of?”

The painted face man stopped, momentarily thrown off by the retort. “Er… I…So, be that as it is, and time what it…”

The performer looked at his watch-less wrist. “Was… oh dear, look at the time; we are already late. My how the time flies when you are…mentally inept. Isn’t that right nephew? Henceforth, just like time, we shall be on our way.” The performer bowed. “Ladies and gentlemen, adieu.”

He grabbed the boy by the wrist and began to lead him through the audience, off of the causeway.

“Now you just wait a god-damned minute!” The sailor said from behind them, before they had made their exit.

The two froze on the spot, as if highlighted by a spotlight in a prison yard. The painted-face man turned back to the crowd who had regrouped and formed another semi-circle around them. The sailor jabbed a finger in the air at them.

“You know as well as I that they don’t have them kind of problems anymore—with the mind goin’ off, I mean. If yer from the city then ye should be able to get his mind all fixed up like them others do, so who’s ye trying to fool here, huh? Plus, I gotta dear cousin in Brazen and she never talked about any kind facility like that before. I’m callin’ balongshit on this story!”

The painted face man scoffed. “So your cousin—she knows every building in Brazen? Right, because that’s more believable than my story. There are over one hundred million people in the downtown core alone; do you have any idea how many businesses there are? I don’t. Surely there are still some correctional facilities kicking around. You know—some of those old school medics who don’t see eye-to-eye with current, uh, standards. And what makes you think I have insurance? Think I could afford it with what you lot pay? Ha!”

“They’s got unee-ver-sal healthcare!” One woman screamed from the back.

The crowd roared in approval, the painted-face man’s ruse striking out once more.

The sailor crossed his arms scowling. “Be that as it may, I saw what that their boy did, and that ain’t no work of a mental patient!”

The crowd jeered again.

“How do you explain poor Mr. Gravy laying in heaps over there? Huh? How do you explain that?”

The painted face man looked to the fallen butcher, still unconscious, and made a wry face. “Well, it’s actually quite simple you see: when your brain begins to fail—which happens when you get as many muscles as he had—your nerves become shot. They don’t fire like their supposed to, and it just so happens that spasms can occur at inconsistent times, completely unnatural of course, and…”

“Enough of this nonsense!” The sailor yelled, his face growing a bright red. “You may be used to swaying people with your shows, but not me. I’m not buyin’ one thing this silver tongue says. I say we kill them both for equal measure.”

The crowd made a general sound of agreement and began to move forward again, the circle closing in around the two.

“I have an idea. Be ready.” The painted face man whispered to the boy.

The man made an O with his fingers, blowing through the hole. A raspy whistle trilled through the air, grabbing the attention of a small falcon sitting atop of a power pole down the road. The falcon chirped and took flight, diving down towards the attacking mob. The bird swooped down onto the oncoming crowd and snatched the hat off the sailor’s head with its talons, taking to the sky again. The sailor span around, nearly stabbing the woman beside him with his fishing knife.

“Hey, my hat! Bring that back you shit-bat!” He hollered at the bird as it rose into the air high above.

“Watch where you’re pointing that bloody poker! You nearly gutted me you oaf!” The woman yelled, shoving the man away.

The falcon began to do circles above the mob, taunting them as it clung fastidiously to the hat. The audience turned their attention to the bird, shielding their eyes from the beaming sun above. The bird screeched once, twice, and then took off to the west, disappearing from view behind Old Tom.

“Well I’ll be damned; looks like that clown did actually have a trick he could pull off.” The sailor said, watching the skyline where the bird had disappeared with his hat.

The crowd turned their attention back to the boy and the performer.

They were gone.

A man was bent over looking at something on the ground where the two had stood moments before. The sailor glanced around but there was no sign of either of them. He walked over to the man and the other turned to him.

“More so than you think. Look.” He handed the sailor a piece of paper.

People crowded around, leaning over the sailor’s shoulder as he read the paper. On the scrap piece there was a childish drawing of a group of stick figures looking to the sky, captivated by something in the air. Behind them were two others, one big one small, wearing a three pointed cap. The one in the cap was bent over, patting his rear with an amused expression on his face, while the large stick figure stood cross-armed in the background, pouting. There was a small arrow etched on the corner of the drawing.

“Turn it over!” a woman said, pointing over the sailor’s shoulder.

The sailor growled at the woman and shrugged her away. He flipped the paper over and as he read, his face began to contort into rage.

“What is it?” Another woman asked.

The sailor grit his teeth. “The greatest illusions of the stage are accomplished not on the premise that an audience may be fooled, but that they are all, already, fools—Erasmus Shod, The Kingspeaker.”

He crumpled the paper up and threw it on the ground, stomping it as he yelled in frustration.

***

The painted face man chuckled to himself as they rounded the corner of the alley, now bouts from the market square.

“I can just see the look on that moron’s face, now.” he chortled.

Brian wasn’t so enlivened. Looking over his shoulder in angst every few seconds, he wasn’t keen on the idea of the throng catching up to them.

“I think we had better move along before they grab the authorities. I’ve already met one of them and I’m guessing it’s not going to be too happy if it runs into me again. And it had a big gun. Big guns equal scary.”

The painted face man waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you’ll be fine. Just stick close to me and no one will be the wiser. I know these streets like the back of my hand.”

“Don’t you wear gloves all the time?”

“Ha-ha. Good one. And speaking of putting on a show, I have something I need to discuss with you. But I am getting ahead of myself. Call me Jester.”

An introductory bow.

“Brian.”

He shook his hand reluctantly.

“I guess I would be…Boxer boy? Boxer man?” 

Jester raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, I thought we were introducing ourselves by our occupation.”

Jester crossed his arms. “Did you ever consider that some of us just weren’t important enough to have been given a proper name?”

Brian waited for the wisecrack to commence but Jester looked dead serious.

“Uh…that’s…sad.”

“Yeah, well life’s sad, lesson learned. Right?”

The screech of a bird interjected into the conversation.

”Oh, here comes the star of the show now.” Jester held out his arm as a small falcon zipped out of the air, landing on his forearms.

Brian recognizes the species: it was a merlin falcon, common back in his hometown of Rebelem. Farmers often used them to help control pests that ruined their crops. They were beautiful little birds with intelligent eyes and fierce features, despite their size. Jester held out his other hand and the falcon plopped the pilfered tricorn into it. Jester plucked out the fancy feather from the hat, placed it into his breast pocket and, with a disapproving sneer, tossed the hat away.

”Brian, meet Penelope. Penelope, Brian.”

Brian nodded at the bird. The falcon hopped up and down on Jester’s arm, clearly uninterested in the introduction, making annoyed chirping sounds at the Jester’s face.

”Penelope! Don’t be rude. Is that anyway to greet…Oh, of course. I apologize.”

Jester reached into another of the many pockets he had on his person and withdrew a sketchy looking clump of moist, pink flesh. He handed it to Penelope who took it gluttonously, pinning whatever it was down against the Jester’s arm with one of its talons as it set to work tearing pieces off with its razor sharp beak.

”It was I who was rude. That last show certainly is owed its due.”

”Penelope? I thought birds of prey would have cooler names than that.” Brian said.

”Ah, but it’s a cardinal rule in the craft that it be just the opposite: fancy names beget lesser creatures.”

”Sounds like superstition.”

Penelope finished her reward and took off into the sky, the Jester giving her a helping boost with his arm. They shielded their eyes from the sun as they watched the silhouette of the small bird disappear into the light.

“What isn’t these days? Now, speaking of names, that brings me to that something needing discussing. We need a better name for you.”

“Change my name? Why?”

“Brian just doesn’t have a…coin-evoking ring to it, you know? How about… Charging Bull? No, that’s too cliche, gimmick’s too on the nose. They’ll see right through it. Hmm… Oh! I got it: Thunder Paw. Ooh, that has some class, doesn’t it? Actually, it was your boxing reference that inspired me, believe it or not.”

Brian shook his head. “What is it with you people? We’re not all named after rutting animals, you know. I’m guessing you don’t get too many starborn passing through here, huh?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Let’s call it an educated guess.”

“Sure. Anyway, I saw what you did to that butcher back there. Brilliant, don’t get me wrong; chump totally deserved it for the way he talked to you. But I know a way you can put that arm to much, much better use.”

“It can wait for another time. Right now I gotta help my friend. He’s badly injured. Take me to the nearest hospital and once he’s on the mend, then we can talk about my arm, or even the Thirteen ’til I’m blue in the face, for all I care.”

Jester stopped at the terminus of the alleyway, scanning both ways down a lesser traversed side street. Though there weren’t as many bodies, they were still in the market district and Jester didn’t seem quite convinced that they were in the clear just yet.

“Right…about that. Um… well, there aren’t exactly…any.”

Brian grabbed the man by the shoulder, turning him violently toward him.

“What do you mean there aren’t any? There’s three thousand people here! There has to be a hospital in a city this size.”

Jester rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, it’s a long story. Short version is, Symphonia isn’t the capitol’s favourite canton. As it turns out, there’s a long history of Vos sentiment, and I’m sure you can imagine how well that played out with Atlandian colonists over the years. Essentially, uncountable embargos and subsidy cuts later, all we’ve got left are med-bays. And they cost a pretty penny, I might add! But I can see that you’re not one for red tape, so let’s talk about something less immediately dismal.”

“I care about red tape if it means my friend might die! Where are these med-bays? I didn’t see any on the way in. The whole town looked deserted up until I came to the market, that is.”

Jester looked back over his shoulder, frowning.

“Deserted? What are you talking about? You saw the square there. It’s like that anywhere people are selling anything worth buying. Where did you go?”

Brian shrugged. “I have no idea. After my ride left, I ran into this little girl and she told me she could help me. I followed her for a while but it didn’t lead anywhere, so I looked on. Hey, what’s the deal with this town, anyway?”

Jester suddenly looked like he had seen a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked.

“Little girl, you said? Can you describe her?”

“Yeah… I guess so. She was young, maybe ten or eleven, brown hair. Pale. Looked like she might be homeless. Tattered dress. No shoes, that kind of thing.”

Jester looked like as pale as the girl he described, like he was suddenly going to be sick. Without saying a word, he turned and walked deadpan into the street.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going? What did I say?”

He reached for the Jester’s shoulder but the man turned his body, shrugging it off.

“See, this is what I mean: everyone here acts so weird, like there’s some kind of big secret they can’t talk about or something.”

The jester continued on down the street, seemingly apathetic.

Brian grit his teeth. “Can’t you see it? You too!”

Brian stopped at the mouth of the alley and the jester turned back and glared at him from the middle of the street.

Jester sighed. “I don’t know kid. Maybe it’s the bystander effect. Who can say? But more to the point: don’t you want to save your friend? Isn’t that what this is all about?”

“Of course I do. I also want to know what the hell is wrong with this town.”

“It has nothing to do with you and it’s best that it stays that way.”

Jester turned back down the walk. “Come on Thunder Paw, let’s get to your pal before it’s too late. It might already be.”

Brian didn’t like the tone of the Jester’s voice, like he was already reading his friend’s eulogy. He followed after him, always watching his back.

***

The Jester pushed aside the construction barricade, holding out a hand to direct Brian past. The Jester followed behind as they squeezed through the opening between buildings, moving the barricade back into place behind them. They stepped out into a long boulevard devoid of people. For what was supposed to be a public neighborhood, the area seemed disturbingly quiet, especially at the time of day that it was. Crestfallen tenement buildings lined the street, many of which had windows boarded up or shuttered closed. The stunted forms of yew trees lined the street at intervals, dead branches like skeletal hands grasping out to the sky, begging for water that never came. There was no sign of life anywhere; Brian looked up to dappled evening sky, noticing that even the birds chose not to fly over the place, as if it were under some kind of… curse.

“This look familiar?” Jester asked.

Brian shifted uncomfortably as he looked around them, realizing that Jester’s tone carried completely valid criticism. “It was the first road I saw on the way in. I heard people and thought that I’d find someone to help. I didn’t realize…well, that it was like this.”

Jester shook his head. “That’s the thing with this place: it shows you what you want to see. What you want to hear.”

Brian gave the man a confused look. “You sound like you think this place is alive or something.”

The Jester stared down the road, his eyes glazing over. “Or something…”

“Uh…listen, I appreciate your help and all but I really should be getting back to my friend. You mentioned there was a med bay back a couple blocks, yeah?”

“I can’t believe you brought him here.” The Jester said to no one in particular.

“Hey, like I said, I didn’t realize what this place was at the time. I was panicking and the little girl seemed to know what she was doing. And I heard a bunch of people, so I thought she was taking me to a public place, not a graveyard.”

The Jester eyed him, as if considering an unsolvable problem in his mind.

“What is this place, anyhow?”

The Jester remained silent for a long time, letting the two of them bask in the uncanny austerity imposed by the silence surrounding them. Just as Brian was sure the Jester was ignoring him, he spoke.

“This a place that everyone here wants to forget but that refuses to be forgotten.” His words were measured, as if he were reciting from a source.

“Why? What happened here?”

The Jester turned to him, sighing. “It’s a long story. Let’s just say, every town has some dirty little pocket of history they care not to explore, and this one happens to be dirtier than most. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“It sounds like you are afraid to talk about it.”

The Jester looked indignant. “I am afraid. And if you were smart you would be too and you’d stop prying.”

“How can I be afraid of something I don’t know anything about?”

“You act as if you’ve never heard of the fear of the unknown.”

“Sounds to me like a lot of people do know what’s going on, but they just won’t talk about it.”

The Jester rounded on Brian, pointing a finger in his face. “Or maybe, they can’t talk about it, and there’s a good reason behind that. Did you ever consider that?”

Brian held up his hands. “Whoa, okay, okay. I see it’s a touchy subject. Sorry, I’ll let it go. I just… I’m just worried about Kade is all. If there’s something bad about to happen, and I’ve put him in the center of it, I feel like I deserve to know.”

The Jester waved his hand, rubbing his temples. “Just, forget about all that for now. So, explain to me again what happened. From the beginning.”

“Well, after we ran into that girl, I chased after her through a bunch of alleys. Felt like I was running through a maze. I heard people up ahead. Lots of them. There were kids too. I thought it was a mall or a market or something. I knew I’d find…well, I thought I’d find help there. But when I rounded the corner there was no one; just this empty place. I was going to leave but the sound came back again. From that house.”

Brian motioned towards the large building at the end of the street. At the far end of the block, a large building hemmed in the street. It appeared to be an old First Era chateau, badly scorched by fire in times immemorial. Yet, the building remained standing, proud, defiant.

“I knocked on the door but no one answered. I could hear the sounds on the other side so I let myself in thinking someone could help me. As soon as I opened the door the sound vanished. There wasn’t anyone inside either.”

The jester looked like he was going to explode.

“What?”

“You…you brought him there? Of all places you brought him there?! Oh, Thirteen, forgive us. Forgive this child that we have forsaken…”

“Forsaken? What are you talking about? What is that house?”

“It’s not a house. It’s a gate to Endabarron. Of all the places you could have brought your friend to help him, that place is about as far down on the list as you can go.”

Brian suddenly felt like he was going to be sick. What had he just condemned his friend to?

“But…what else could I do? I had no idea!” He pleaded.

The Jester stared at him, looking between the panicking teenager and the ominous mansion down the walk. His attention drifted towards the manor where it lingered for a time.

Brian could not stand the suspense any longer. “That’s it. If you don’t tell me what happened here, I’m gonna lose my mind, I swear.”

The Jester stood emotionless, caught in a trance by the burnt edifice.

Brian shouted, stomping the flagstones. The Jester startled, taking a step back from the disgruntled youth. “Fine. You do you. I’m going to find him.”

The jester frowned as Brian walked past him. He grabbed his arm.

“Wait!” the jester yelped. “You’re not going in there, are you?”

Brian looked angrily down at the Jester’s hand on his arm. “That’s where I left him, so that’s where I’m going.”

He reefed his arm out of the Jester’s grip and plodded defiantly down the boulevard.

The jester ran up to him, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging at him like an incessant child. “You can’t go in there! It’s suicide! You have no idea what you are walking into. You…”

Brian had heard enough. He shoved him off with a stiff arm and the man fell hard on his rear. He looked up at him, fury and confusion fighting each other on his face.

“I don’t care. If there’s something on the other side of those doors–some unspeakable evil–and I put my friend in it, then it’s my responsibility to get him out.”

“But that’s what you don’t understand: you can’t save him now. You should just run while you can.”

Brian gave the Jester a defiant look, turning to look down the way at the mansion which loomed in the distance like a foe awaiting a challenge.

“Was never one to run from a fight.”

Brian turned and jogged away down the boulevard. The jester watched him go as he sat in the middle of the dusty street, the strange young man hustling towards one of the most dangerous houses in all of Atlandia.

“It always ends with me on the ground.” He grumbled.

He turned his head and spat out a mouthful of dust before he retrieved his fallen bag and made his way back into the town that didn’t even care to know his name.