The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus (5 page)

“No, it wasn’t,” said Domingo helpfully, producing one of the casks of wine from the chest of drawers. “There’s some left.”

By the time he caught Mr. Bacchus’ eye, it was too late. Doctor Bentham was seated in Mr. Bacchus’ wicker chair, pouring the wine, saying: “How civilized of you, Bacchus. The world knows that we have been enemies for centuries, yet you invite me into your little caravan and offer me wine.” He soothed his silver cane with his fingers and sipped a little of the wine with distaste.

At that moment, a peacock feather lodged up Bathsheba’s left nostril, and she sneezed, at the same time kicking a large hole in the side of the costume-basket, with her right leg.

With a sardonic smile the Doctor slowly put on a pair of silver spectacles and pointed a grey-gloved finger at the leg: “What—is that?” he said slowly.

“That?” said Mr. Bacchus. “That’s a leg.”

“What is more,” replied the Doctor, his smile vanishing. “That is undoubtedly the leg of an orang-outang.”

“Well—” began Mr. Bacchus, for once in his life rather lost for words. But his sentence was never finished.

“What if it is an orang-outang?” said Hero, stepping forward and flexing his muscles. “You’ve got no business poking your noses into the caravan of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus.”

“I have if you’ve stolen my monkey,” said Doctor Bentham reprovingly.

“We haven’t stolen her,” said Domingo quickly. “Bathsheba doesn’t belong to you!”

“So it is her!” snapped the Doctor with a sneer, and turning to the door he called to the rest of his Circus: “Tears, idle Tears! Seize me the monkey!”

Upon his words, the other members of the Theatre of Tears burst into the caravan. But before Bentham himself could reach the costume-basket and seize Bathsheba’s still-protruding leg, Domingo put out his foot and tripped him up. The Doctor’s spectacles flew into the air and were promptly trodden upon by the Silver Clown – who picked up the slivers of glass with wild eyes and juggled them. The next moment, the caravan was in chaos! Medea the snake-woman set the blind cobra upon Hero, and it immediately encircled him in ever-tightening coils. The strongman had to use all his power in his biceps to keep it from crushing the breath out of him.

Meanwhile, Luther, the Doctor’s under-fed wolf, who was standing face to face with Malachi, leapt into the air, a deadly growl at the back of his throat. Malachi took fright and turned to make a diplomatic retreat, and his huge tail knocked the wolf across the caravan.

Mud, Hole and Slug, the acrobatic trio, had pounced upon Ophelia, eating her wild flowers by the handful, and yelling the most wild threats, but Domingo came to her aid with six willow-pattern plates, which he promptly smashed over their heads.

By now, Doctor Bentham had retrieved the shattered remains of his spectacles, and his blood-shot eyes had alighted on Mr. Bacchus, who was engrossed in keeping the bald snake-woman from pulling out his beard by the roots. Stealthily, he crept behind Bacchus and raised his silver cane to strike him down. “Oh, how good,” he thought. “To have this, my last enemy, finally silenced.” Before the blow could land, however, Bacchus caught sight of the attack in the pink eyes of the snake-woman, and turned on his heels to ward off the Doctor’s blow with his wooden stick.

A look close to madness flared in Bentham’s eyes and the caravan was suddenly still. The two Circus owners stood facing each other. Doctor Bentham’s grey lips drawn back from his lead teeth, Mr. Bacchus with half a smile on his face.

Without warning, the Doctor raised his silver cane even higher, and brought it down again, swift as lightning, upon his intended victim. But Bacchus’ stick, woven with convolvulus, met the cane in mid-air and as they struck, the wilderness seemed to convulse. There was a sudden flash illuminating Bentham’s features in a ghastly yellow, and revealing the darkness behind his eyes.

The next moment his cane fractured, and silver shards spun in all directions, glittering as they fell, over and over. The look on Bentham’s face turned to fear, and in a voice that was no longer cold and heavy, but high and hollow, he cried:

“Back, Tears! Back, My Theatre!”

At this, Mud, Hole and Slug scurried like lice through the door, followed by the hooked Silver Clown, the Snake-Woman and Luther. The Doctor himself, still holding the shattered stump of his silver cane, turned at the door and pointed a shaking forefinger at Mr. Bacchus.

“I warn you, Bacchus,” he said, fighting to keep himself from weeping. “This is not the end of our encounter. Oh, dear me, no.”

And then, with a grimace that revealed his now-broken teeth, he stepped into the grey gloom that had crept over the empty road as the dawn approached, and was swallowed utterly.

It took a long time to tidy up the caravan after the battle, especially the collecting of all the pieces of Bentham’s silver cane, some of which had buried themselves deep in the woodwork, like bright worms. Mr. Bacchus put them into a small bag, and buried them in an empty field. It was henceforth sterile.

When as much of the damage as was possible had been righted, Bathsheba thanked them all for their help. “What would I have done without you?” she said. “I should have been doomed to a life of Tears.”

“It was nothing,” said Malachi.

****

That morning, when they set off along the road to Cathay, they knew that they were being followed. Whenever someone happened to glance out of the back window, he would glimpse another caravan, a black caravan, pulled by a giant armadillo, just appearing around the corner, or waiting behind a beech copse. Bathsheba recognized it as Doctor Bentham’s.

“He’ll follow us,” she said. “Until he finds the right moment – then he’ll strike. Perhaps next time he’ll bring his knives, and his syllogisms. There was never a man with such dark ideas.”

“I’m scared,” said Ophelia.

“There’s absolutely no need to be, my dear,” said Mr. Bacchus. “Good will undoubtedly overcome evil every time. Take my word for it.”

“Not always,” said Hero, grimly. “There’s a tale they tell on the shores of Lake Rudolph—”

Just then, Angelo, who was driving, called:

“Bacchus! Bacchus! We’ve arrived.”

“Good,” said Mr. Bacchus.

“Where are we?” asked Domingo.

“Parkgate,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “On the shores of the great Dee.”

The clown looked out of the window. The caravan was rattling down the cobbled streets of a town. There was the smell of salt in the wind, and the sound of gulls mewing.

“What have we come here for?” asked Hero.

“I have a plan, my boy,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “Drive down to the harbour, Angelo.”

Very soon, the caravan clattered down to the sea front. There was a solitary ship tied up to the quay, rocking gently on the tide, and as Mr. Bacchus stepped down from the caravan, he pointed to it with a smile of satisfaction.

“Hent,” he said mysteriously.

The vessel had an ominous appearance, with its figurehead of a mad dog, its black sails, and the vermilion skull and crossed bones that blew from the masthead.

“But that’s a pirate ship,” said Hero.

“Pirates!” said Malachi. “A despicable breed. Unkempt. Filthy. Scum of the seas.”

“Most, perhaps,” said Mr. Bacchus. “But not Hent.” And without another word, began to rummage through the costume box. At length he salvaged from it a wooden sword and an old fur fox. He then proceeded to wrap the fur around the blade.

“The window,” he said as he worked. “Watch the window.”

Ophelia peered out of the back window, watching for any sign of Bentham’s caravan, but so far the streets leading down to the harbour were empty. Even the shrimp-sellers hid in the dark of the alleyways.

“Now,” said Mr. Bacchus, once he had finished his work. “We are all going out to say our farewell.”

“Who to?” asked Domingo.

“To Bathsheba,” replied Mr. Bacchus.

“Where’s she going?” said Ophelia.

“With Hent, on the next tide,” came the answer.

“Oh no!” said Ophelia. “She mustn’t.”

“Not the real one,” replied Bacchus. “The real Bathsheba will be in the caravan, hiding.” And he picked up the fox fur effigy, climbed down from the caravan, and walked straight towards the pirate ship.

On the gently swaying deck, a figure stood amid the creaking ropes and flapping canvas. An elegant looking gentleman, with small dark spectacles and a knife-edge in his breeches, his hand on his hip.

“You,” Mr. Bacchus called to him. “Hent.”

The pirate looked up slowly from his sizeable feet and seemed to half-recognise Mr. Bacchus.

“Do I know you?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Of course,” replied Mr. Bacchus.

“From whence?” asked the pirate, with a worried look. Mr. Bacchus smiled knowingly.

“The Tyrrhenian Sea, fellow! Don’t you remember?” he said, producing a bunch of grapes from Ophelia’s ear. A look of recognition came into Hent’s eyes and with it a look of barely suppressed panic.

“You,” he said. “You, turning the mast to vines and the oars to serpents—”

“So, you remember,” said Mr. Bacchus.

“I could scarcely forget,” said Hent. “I never touch wine these days.”

“Where are you going?” said Bacchus.

“Why?” demanded the pirate. “You can’t come aboard. I forbid it. I know what you can do, you monster.”

“I don’t want to sail myself,” replied Bacchus. “I have some new crew members for you.”

“How much?” came the demand.

“Gratis,” said Bacchus. “I ask again, Hent, where are you headed?”

“We are sailing for the Arctic,” the pirate replied, with a wicked smile. “To steal ice.”

“Then you’ll need extra crew,” said Bacchus. “To hack the ’bergs and to load the blocks. Not a pleasant job, hacking, and freezing, and fighting off whales.”

“True,” said Hent.

“Here then,” said Mr. Bacchus, climbing the gangway and giving the fox-fur mannequin to the pirate. “A little piece of magic. Stand that in the bows, and your crew will come running.”

“Magic?” said the pirate, taking the fox-fur from Bacchus at arm’s length in case some sudden transformation occurred.

“Trust me,” said Bacchus, and he laughed. “After all,” he said, “if I wanted to sink you, there are easier ways.”

“I know, I know,” said the pirate.

“Now do as I say, dear boy,” said Mr. Bacchus. “Before the estuary silts.”

For a moment the pirate stared at the effigy, and then obediently took it to the bows of the ship, leaning it against the railings. Then he returned to the gangplank.

“If you make a clown out of me—” he threatened, reaching for his cutlass.

“Impossible, impossible,” said Mr. Bacchus in a kindly voice. “Could I make the ocean wetter?”

“No.”

“Then that’s settled,” said Mr. Bacchus.

Hardly had the words left his lips, when a loud clatter echoed around the empty quayside and Doctor Bentham’s caravan came into sight. The doctor himself was driving it, and his face was white with fury.

“Thieves!” he cried. “Thieves! I shall have my monkey and your head, Bacchus! Your head, to turn forests to stone!”

“Set sail!” called Mr. Bacchus to the pirates. “Set sail, Hent, before you lose the tide. Here comes the rest of your crew now!”

Hent shouted an order, and immediately the deck was swarming with swarthy pirates, preparing to set sail. The anchor was raised from the mud, the black sails lowered to swell in the wind. The ominous ship strained at its mooring rope, as its keel seemed to sense the icy currents.

“Wave!” hissed Mr. Bacchus to the others. “Wave to Bathsheba!”

Everyone began to wave furiously at Bathsheba and called: “Bon Voyage!”

It was all extremely convincing. In fact, Ophelia, who always felt downcast at farewells, was moved to tears by the whole scene.

Even as two of the pirates cast off the ropes, and prepared to draw the gangplank aboard the vessel, Bentham’s black caravan came to a halt, and the Doctor leapt down from the driving seat, an Italian butcher’s knife in each hand.

“Well,” he said to Bacchus. “Shall I have your head now or later? Stand aside, Bacchus, and you may live a minute longer.”