The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus (10 page)

“Good luck,” Mr. Bacchus shouted across the river, as they disappeared into the caves. “And be careful! We shall be waiting for you!”

Once again Angelo led the way as they descended, the light from his eyes flickering eerily on the wet walls of the tunnels they followed. After a few minutes, however, another source of light began to filter through the ice passages.

“What’s that?” said Domingo.

“Where? I can’t see anything,” said Malachi.

“A light,” said the Clown. “There’s a light ahead.”

“Sssh!” said Angelo. “It will be the fragment of the sun that’s burning. Bathsheba, when we face him it will be your task to wrench the bird’s head off him. Once his mask is removed, perhaps his sanity will be restored.”

“Unlikely,” said Malachi. “The man is mad and there’s an end to it. Like Akhenaton. Now he thought he was the sun.”

“Silence, crocodile,” said Angelo. “For once be silent.”

“Such gratitude,” said Malachi. “Were I not a Nile crocodile you would be on the other side of the river with a love-lorn look on your pitiful face.”

Angelo was not listening, however, but inching along the tunnel wall towards the light, followed by Bathsheba and Ophelia. Malachi considered turning back for sheer spite, but could not face the journey in the dark, so scuttled after them.

Quite abruptly they turned the corner and found themselves in the most measureless of measureless caverns, vast as a god’s cathedral, lit from ice-paved floor to vaulted roof with almost blinding light.

In the middle of the gleaming cavern sat the Princess, her high cheeks tear-stained and her eyes red. A few yards from her lay the silver box, from which the sun’s light was pouring.

“The fragment of the sun,” breathed Bathsheba in amazement. “It can be no larger than an egg.”

“Forget the sun,” said Angelo. “It’s the Princess we must save.”

“Where’s the bird-man?” warned Domingo. “We must be careful of him.”

But his words were already lost on Angelo, who was already running and sliding across the cavern floor towards the Princess, showers of crystal flying into the air as his feet scored the ice. As soon as she saw him she stood up, and a look of love and panic came into her eyes.

“Back!” she screamed. “Go back! Forget me!”

“Never!” said Angelo, grabbing her slender wrists. “Never!”

The princess cried out at his roughness, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Leave me! Please!” she begged.

Then the bird-man’s shriek of wrath was heard once more in the caves below Xanadu. More inhuman and horrifying than any sound those cold walls had echoed hitherto. From the roof of the cavern, like a gargoyle toppling from its dizzy perch, the bird-man leapt, the air swelling his robes around him as he descended, as if he were floating in a sea of burning light.

“Above you!” cried Domingo. “He’s above you!” and he ran towards Angelo. Bathsheba jumped onto Malachi’s back and they pursued the Clown.

With another shriek, more horrible, if that were possible, than the last, the birdman fell upon Angelo, his hands becoming claws as they fastened around the youth’s bare neck.

“Sing!” shouted Bathsheba.

“What?” said Malachi. “Are you mad too?”

“Oh, what a noble mind” began Ophelia, but her speech was drowned as Malachi burst into the final act of “Gotterdammerung.” His voice echoed around and around the great cavern, becoming not one but a thousand voices. The ice walls trembled and stalactites plummeted from the roof like spears, to shatter on the floor. To this cacophony for splintering ice and choir, Ophelia harmonized a melancholy song about St. Valentine’s Day and Domingo shouted jokes at the top of his voice.

Living, as he had, in the absolute silence of the caves, the Khan’s brother was unused to such a din, and let out another cry, this time of pain and bewilderment. He toppled from Angelo’s back, holding his head in his hands. Angelo fell to the floor, wounded, and in the confusion, Kuyuk’s eyes alighted upon the silver box. Seizing it, he fled down the tunnel leading back to the river, plunging the others into the radiance of Angelo’s eyes.

“Catch him!” yelled Bathsheba. “He has the sun!” and she pushed him down the tunnel upon Malachi’s back, with Domingo dancing behind.

In the dim cavern, all was abruptly silent. Angelo lay sprawled on the ice, nursing his clawed and bleeding throat. The Princess sat weeping and shivering beside him. Suddenly everything was desolation in the ice-caves.

On the far side of the river, Mr. Bacchus and Hero saw the figure of the birdman emerge from the tunnel, bearing the silver box.

“Quickly,” said Mr. Bacchus. “It’s him! It’s him! Go and fetch a few soldiers, Hero my boy. He may be dangerous.”

As Hero raced up the steps six at a time, Malachi, Bathsheba and Domingo appeared, still shouting and singing.

Kuyuk was trapped.

The bridge had been destroyed by his own hands and the river ran too fast and icy for any man to swim. So the bird-man turned to face his pursuers, still clinging to the precious silver box.

“Tom O’Bedlam!” cried Mr. Bacchus,

“Forth from my sad and darksome cell,

“Or from the deep Abyss of Hell,

“Mad Tom is coming to view the world again.”

Mr. Bacchus’ booming cry was too much for the Khan’s brother. Agonized, he drew from his belt an ice dagger, and aimed it at Bacchus. Even as the blade left his hand, Bathsheba, seeing her opportunity, leapt from Malachi’s tail onto the birdman’s back. He shrieked horribly as the orang-outang tugged at the mask. With a tearing of hessian and feathers the head came free from the face of the Khan’s brother. The dagger, meanwhile, was flying unerringly towards its victim’s head. But it did not reach its target. Mr. Bacchus merely stretched out his hand and caught it. At his touch, the ice turned to rain.

By now Kuyuk had fallen to his knees, and as he did so, he let the box and its burning fragment drop into the Alph, where with a great deal of hissing, it was borne away down to the waterfall, to light, at last, the sunless sea beyond. As for the Khan’s brother, he knelt at the edge of the river by the fading light of the sun, sobbing pitifully. The scene was frozen for an instant. Bacchus mopping his brow, the Clown, crocodile and Orang-outang standing gazing at their feet, and the agonized tears of the Khan’s brother falling onto the unmelting ice. Then, accompanied by Angelo, his neck bound with silk bandages torn from her robes, the Princess emerged from the tunnel, and though Kuyuk was turned from her he raised his head as if knowing she was there. Though his face was gaunt, and his beard long and filthy, the Princess recognized him immediately.

“Father!” she cried. “Father!”

Kuyuk drew his hands from his face and gazed upon his daughter, as if seeing her for the first time. At that moment the look of madness sank from his eyes and he embraced her. Even as he put his cracked lips upon the Princess’ forehead, from down the tunnel there rose a thunder. The great cavern, its walls cracked by the tumult, at last collapsed upon itself, and all Xanadu shook with the violence of its death. Even as the thunder died, Hero returned with a dozen of the Khan’s soldiers and a makeshift bridge was hurriedly constructed across the river, by which the company crossed the roaring Alph. Then, amid great celebration, they climbed the stairway up into the throne-room, still lit by bonfires, where Kublai Khan sat in state. The brothers embraced each other with many tears, and Angelo, speechless, now and forever, because of his wounded throat, embraced the Princess.

The Khan spoke, his voice severe. “Youth,” he said to Angelo. “She is the daughter of the Khan’s brother. She cannot belong to anyone.”

“He is not anyone,” replied the Princess.

“Are you an Inquisitor then?” demanded the Khan. Angelo shook his head. “An archbishop, perhaps, or a son of an archbishop?” Once more Angelo had to shake his head. Then, bowing, he pointed to the door, and walked down the throne-room and out into the cold night air. “What is the youth intending?” said Khan.

“Your Majesty,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “The fragment you broke from the sun is now lighting some nether-sea, and Xanadu is in darkness. When you have burned all your willow-screens and felled all the trees in the pleasure dome, the darkness will be eternal.”

“Indeed,” said the Khan.

“Then follow the youth, Your Magnificence,” said Mr. Bacchus. “We may yet see a miracle.”

Unsmiling, the Khan rose from his throne, but his heavy robes prevented him from taking a step.

“Allow me,” said Hero, lifting the Khan onto his shoulders, and led the way outside, followed by the performers and courtiers.

Out in the bleak night the Khan addressed Angelo from Hero’s shoulders.

“Youth,” he said. “Your miracle.”

So Angelo threw back his head, and from out of his eyes two pillars of light poured into the sky, and as they touched the dismal clouds that seethed above Xanadu, the vapours threw back to reveal the white orb of the moon.

The courtiers hid their eyes, and on the seven walls the guards let out shouts of fear and confusion. But the Khan smiled.

Light fell again on Xanadu, and in place of the dreaming day, there began, at that moment, a perpetual waking night.

****

The wedding of Angelo to the Princess, daughter of the Khan’s brother, was a magnificent affair. In a pavilion built of bamboo, supported by columns of gold, the great wedding feast took place. A wind had sprung up from the Northwest and the pavilion’s two hundred silk cords sang as it wove its way between them.

Of course the highlight of the feast was the performance by Mr. Bacchus’ Travelling Circus, and when at last it came to Angelo’s act, and he gathered about his head the moths from the rice fields and from under the tongues of the great jade lions, everyone believed that there was nobody in the world so worthy of the Princess’ hand as Angelo the Silent.

When the performance was finished and one by one the courtiers of Kublai Khan had retired to sleep amid the frost-touched leaves under the moon, the Khan brought from the sleeves of his robes six crystals mined from the caves of ice, and gave one to each of them.

“These are to remind you of Xanadu,” he explained. “To remind you to return when I am gone and the silent youth rules in Xanadu. Good luck on your journey, each of you. The love of Kublai Khan goes with you.”

They said goodbye, with many tears, to Angelo, to the Princess and her father, and of course to the Khan himself, at the sardonyx gate of Xanadu, and set off down the precarious road, led by the helmeted rider. When finally they came to the great waterfall, Hero stopped the caravan, and they stepped out to look at it. It roared on, silver in the moonlight.

“We must be on our way,” said Mr. Bacchus.

“Oh, why?” said Ophelia.

“The untold want,” declaimed Mr. Bacchus.

“Of life and land ne’er granted,

“Now voyager, seek thou forth and find.”

“More adulation, more applause!” laughed Domingo. “All those people waiting for me! My audience!” and while everybody climbed back into the caravan, he turned ecstatic cartwheels for the moon. Then they rattled on down the road again, Mr. Bacchus sitting in his chair as usual, head bowed. Eventually, the roar of the waterfall faded, and, at the very place where they had first spotted him, the rider turned his horse, and without a word, galloped back along the narrow road to Xanadu.

Its towers were quite lost in the mist.

“Where shall we go now?” called Hero from the driver’s seat.

“Anywhere you like, my boy,” said Bacchus. “Anywhere, I don’t know. To the Feast of Fools!”

Then Ophelia gave a cry. “In the crystals,” she said. “Look.”

In each of the six crystals could be seen the seven walls of Xanadu, against the perfect circle of the moon.

“It’s all done by mirrors,” said Malachi.

“I shall miss Xanadu,” said Ophelia wistfully.

“Oh, civilization is a fine place to visit,” said Mr. Bacchus. “But who’d want to live there?” and he began to laugh until tears rolled down his cheeks.

And a few months later, early in March of the next year, when the spring sun was melting the frost on the puddles, the six crystals melted, leaving in their place only pools of murky water. But that was not before, one night in January, when the caravan stood in a hundred mile queue of babbling pilgrims waiting to cross the Sand Bridge into Chaleds, that it seemed as though the company heard, far off, the great fall of the waterfall, and the soft, piping music drifting on the wind from the lunar towers of the fabled Xanadu.

The Worlds and Words

Between the Cracks

Throughout the ages, storytellers and fantasists have enthralled the world with their tales. At first the bards recorded real events in ways that turned great men into heroes. They converted the world into beautiful verse and compelling song. They passed the words down from generation to generation until their tales grew from the bare bones of reality into the bright plumage of legend.

When things needed to be explained, they created religions and fables. They painted their histories with brushes dipped in otherworldly ink. Though they were tasked with preserving the world around them, they became something much more important. They were the first fantasists. They remade the world into a place that scared them a little less, and that held its shine a bit better against the encroachment of time. They built a cloak of words to keep out the darkness and embellish the light.

Some did a better job of this than others. It’s not an exact science, and though a man may become very learned and wise, the ability to write can escape him completely. In early times, a few tried to chronicle their world, the men and women they interacted with, and the events that surrounded them with photographic clarity. They failed. When their memories were compared with the accounts of their contemporaries, there were always discrepancies. Reality is a schizophrenic, unstable target. It exists only in the moment; anything after that is suspect. We depend on words, and those who wield them, to weave a tapestry we can believe in, and to preserve images that give us enough to convince us that what we have is memory, and not fable.