Shannon (26 page)

“One night a bunch of men came to rob him. They looked in through the window and saw Senan sitting there. But they also saw that he wasn't alone. There was another man with him, a man dressed in the most beautiful silks and brocades, obviously a great and marvelous man, a man of proud bearing and noble presence, a rich and kingly warrior. What you might call an extraordinary human being.”

Francis Carberry attended his pipe once more and then continued.

“The robbers were so impressed with this gentleman that, instead of attacking and probably killing Senan, they knocked on the door and asked humbly if they could become monks in his abbey. When Senan invited them in, they now saw that he was alone. There wasn't anybody else there. There was no brilliant gentleman, no king or prince. Senan, you see, was both men.”

Francis Carberry turned and looked directly at Robert, brown eyes gazing into blue.

“I've thought of that story many times in the past few days. Because so often I looked at you and saw a brilliant and wonderful man beside you.”

Francis Carberry waved and walked away.

O
n the washed land of the lakeshore, Robert looked at the benign departing back of his friend.
Can I remember where Francis lives? Could I find it again? I can remember Joe and Molly. And Miranda's house. I wonder how Miranda is? If only she could meet Francis.

He squared his shoulders under the rucksack and began to walk. On his left hand the water plopped and gurgled, nuzzling the damp brown earth of the lakeshore. After the heavy rain of the recent days, the woodland on his right smelled damp and enticing; the trees, slightly drunk now, sighed and whispered as though they wanted to tell him secrets.

For the first time on this journey, Robert had a clear plan for the day. He would walk for two and a half hours and then stop for lunch— pork and onion sandwiches on brown soda bread, prepared by Francis after breakfast—walk for another two and a half hours, and then find a room for the night. Francis had compiled a list of lodgings ahead.

Two months—even one month—previously, Robert couldn't have followed such a plan. Even if it had been written down for him, even if he could have pulled a list from his pocket and read it every few yards, he still wouldn't have been able to do it. He had no continuity of thought
back then; he had no capacity to plan. Given food for the road, he ate it as soon as he set out.

His morning passed enjoyably at the steady pace of three miles an hour or thereabouts. The lake thrilled him. He saw every bird that flew that day every swan that sailed. At lunch he sat leaning against a tree and felt the warm sun on his face, the firm bark at his back. He took his self-allotted half hour and then marched onward again, into the deep afternoon.

At four o'clock the rain came down, heavy, cutting, and cold. Now on a path beside a small road, Robert heard the sound of a trucks throat. He hid, just in case, in reeds taller than himself; he almost stepped on a waterfowl's nest with eggs in it. The cover of the reeds allowed him to peep through, and he saw not a drab-colored lorry of men with guns but a gaudy red-and-blue wagon, from whose engine poured thick smoke. The lorry halted as Robert looked, and down from the cab climbed a man of dramatic bearing, who threw his hands out in a wide gesture and howled to the sky, “Oh, God. God, where are you?”

Robert came from the reeds and called, “Good day.”

The tall man turned and wailed in a voice rich as mango, “How can you say that? How can you call this
a
.
good day?”

Blue-black smoke enveloped him. Robert beat his way through it and helped the man to raise the hood. Over the engine lay a blanket, smoldering and licked by actual fire.

“My God, my God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?” The tall man clapped a hand to his forehead. Robert whipped the blanket away, threw it down onto the roadway, and stomped out its little flames.

The tall man took Robert's hand in both of his and said, “My savior! My savior!”

In a crooked row of yellow teeth he had one tall tooth black as a hangman.

“This is Mulligan's Circus!
My
circus. I'm James Mulligan!”

He called this out like a barker at a fair, even though not another soul could be seen.

“The blanket?” Robert asked.

“To keep the engine warm and dry at night. I'd do it for a dog. But I always forget to take it out in the morning.

“Tonight we play Lanesborough.” This was Robert's next staging post. “Be my honored guest.” They got in.

James Mulligan hammered on his truck as he drove it north to his venue on Lanesborough Green. The red-and-blue tent, already raised, had some holes.

“Ventilation,” he explained, gesturing toward the dome. “With a big crowd you need to expunge odors.”

He led Robert into the empty tent. The ring had been assembled, red and yellow segments locked together with metal hasps, and in the center a very small man scattered fistfuls of sawdust with flowing gestures.

“That's Andy; he's our best child clown.”

Andy seemed a little unsteady; some of the sawdust sprayed outside the ring.

“Nice and even, now, Andy, nice and even,” called James. “Think of the horses.”

Andy looked across at James and Robert and suddenly upended the bucket of sawdust in a loose heap. He shouted some mercifully indistinct suggestion about the horses and left the ring, falling as he went and then getting up to stagger onward.

“The temperament of the artiste,” murmured James.

Robert followed him into the ring, and together they distributed fistfuls of sawdust until it covered the circular arena evenly.

James then looked around. “I'm sorry, my dear man, but do you see the orchestra anywhere? We have a full orchestra, with— as I always insist— silver trumpets. I find brass too common for my aesthetics.” When no orchestra, common or otherwise, appeared, James said, “Would you care to join me in my traveling residence?”

They reached a trailer; one wheel had a flat tire.

“Where my caravan has rested,” intoned James, and held the door open grandly.

Robert climbed inside after James, who cried, “Welcome! Welcome!”

The aroma of stale food almost made Robert gag. James pulled out a chair.

“Sit, sit. We can talk as I change, and then I shall ask that you leave me alone for some reflection before the performance. But now I must robe for my public.”

James walked to the back of the trailer. He returned with a red swallowtail coat and some white garments.

“Mulligan's Circus was founded by my grandfather in Sligo. Now, one does not typically associate the town of Sligo with the varied and demanding arts of the circus performer, it's a damp place and poorly lit, and all the magic resides in the countryside.”

He began to undress and Robert, grasping that James was about to strip completely, turned in his chair and looked elsewhere.

“But my grandfather,” continued James, “had been to Italy and France, and he returned as a fully trained and rather magnificent acrobat. He was known— rightly, I may say— as Flying Mulligan. With the help of Hungary's crown prince, a close friend—that is to say an intimate— he established a great traveling circus. He had lions and tigers, a cheetah, a black panther, two elephants, a giraffe, a hippopotamus, a number of ferrets, and some singing birds. And a dog.” The door of the trailer opened and a woman stood there.

“Jimmy, the band is missing.”

“Their muse will bring them back.”

“Jimmy, they went missing last week too.”

“And did their muse not bring them back?”

“I don't care who brought them back. Them two are a bad pair.”

“There are three of them, my dear.”

Robert reduced his expectations of an orchestra with wind and strings.

“This is my new American friend,” said James. “And this is Dolores.”

“Andy's on another rant,” said Dolores, ignoring Robert completely.

“I saw him earlier. We must allow for performance nerves.”

“The back part of the tent is falling down at the door. And Halleluia has a cough.” She had a voice as flat as a board.

James now looked worried. He came forward in his red swallowtail coat; he wore no pants of any variety; Dolores took no notice.

“Can we get some fresh grass for her?” he asked.

“She et a book this morning.”

James smiled. “A critic! Go and make her feel well.” As Robert prayed that James would not turn around, James said over his shoulder, “Halleluia is the star of our show. Without her we are— ordinary.”

Dolores went away, and James retreated to the depths of the trailer.

“My father had two sons,” he called out. “William and James. Twins. He named us after opposing kings. And we inherited the circus. Regrettably we did not concur on the management of our art, and we agreed to separate. William took the animal acts, and I took the people— with the exception of Halleluia, who was attached to me anyway. Goats appreciate me. In time I bought some horses. Some of the acts went on to other things, some even left circus life.”

He halted, struggling into a pair of tight pants, each leg of which had a shiny red stripe down the outside.

Somebody knocked hard at the trailer door. James answered it and had an altercation with whomever stood outside.

“Scutter!” he cried. “Scutter on you!”

He closed the door hard and held it tight from the inside. It shook once or twice as though somebody outside wished to open it forcibly. James stood there in silence, a finger to his lips.

Finally he let go— nobody there.

“Musicians!” he said. “God!” And, more sadly, “We have no performance tonight, I fear. Halleluia's coughing. I cannot risk the health of an artiste.”

James left the trailer. After some minutes Robert went out too. The rain had come sweeping back in, heavier than before. In the tent he saw three young men with musical instruments; they stood under a flap— and then made a wild run for somewhere.

Nothing else happened. He saw nobody, heard nothing. Robert went back to the trailer, from which a smell of cooking now came. He knocked on the open door.

“Come in, dear boy” boomed James, who wore no more than his shiny pants. On a small stovelike contraption that spat blue flames he fried steak and onions and winced as the fat spattered his bony white-haired chest.

“I have a proposal for you,” he said to Robert. He seemed not at all like a man whose evening show had just been canceled. “Will you not watch one hour with me, so to speak? I like the Gospel of Saint Matthew. I find Mark dry, and Luke is frankly unreliable. John is a juvenile.”

Robert let this scholarly judgment pass, and James sailed on.

“I need a spiritual adviser. For a week. No more. Will you not watch one week with me? I will take care of you, hand and foot, a splendid bed
at night, a varied and exciting life, with stimulating conversation. I am an ex-seminarian myself. The bishop would not ordain me on account of a very grave theological disagreement.”

James Mulligan shared his steak and onions and maintained a booming monologue. At last he showed Robert to a small trailer where loud wheezy breathing came from the other side of a curtain. Robert called a soft greeting, and received no answer.
Is it man, woman, child, or beast?

His bunk proved surprisingly comfortable, if narrow and short. Having eaten a substantial helping of steak and onions, he slept a good and rewarding sleep with no dreams.

He awoke to chaos— chaos and rain. Much of the tent had collapsed. Some of the animals had broken loose—the buffalo, two horses, the llama. James strolled about the wrecked site, chanting verse: “And the lives of the great shall be merry and wise/And those filled with hate shall be puny as flies.” He paused, checking to see who listened, then commented to Robert, “Forgive its lack of profundity. I composed it only yesterday.”

Dolores said, “The camels are gone up into the town.”

Robert slipped away. Inside a minute the curve of Lanesborough's main street hid him from the circus— and from James Mulligan.

At the edge of town, he saw a woman opening her door wide; against her window she propped a notice:
COOKED MEALS HERE.