Seth Blackburn by Circus of the Dead

Author:Circus of the Dead
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-06-01T13:08:59+00:00

Long before we met the clown, our noses were drowned in cascades of odor. Like water circling a drain before finally slipping into that hole, so did those smells circle our nostrils before running through and igniting the virgin receptors in our brains. There was the pungent stink of animal dung and feed, not unfamiliar but still somehow exotic. Next came the salty air of warm food and the thick, cloying weight of cooking meat. Last, and oh so much worth the wait, the sweetness of foods I’d never before experienced. Like sugar had been melted and became part of the desert’s dry air; the sweetness coated our throats, lined our noses with promises so rich that our teeth ached.

“You comin’ or what?” The voice was gruff, resonating with the abuse of alcohol and tobacco that had passed over its station in the throat. We saw the clown at the gate, cold, careless eyes staring out at us from white make-up that was beginning to run in creamy rivulets starting at the large brow. Whether it was brotherly instinct or fear I could not say, but Christopher reached out and took my hand. For the same inexplicable reasons, I willingly took his in return. The clown grunted when he saw this and looked as though he were going to speak, and not kindly, when a man and woman passed by us. I recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Tauton. Mr. Tauton seemed mesmerized by colors of the clown, the red sponge nose, the large black shoes and the bright yellows and oranges of the puffy pants and shirt. Too mesmerized to notice my existence or fire his cold, angry gaze my way. If for no other reason, this was enough to make me glad for the clown. I was no longer afraid and released Christopher’s hand, though I felt the sweat still thick upon my palm.

Mrs. Tauton passed something to the clown’s hand and he held the item up into the electric light and I saw it glitter. A little mystery went then, a layer of magic peeled away. For I saw then, perhaps by the shift of his neck or the look just beneath his painted face, that the clown was none other than the Fancy Man’s driver. Papa had once told me that as every man grows the layers of mysticism and wonder peel away like an onion until all that’s left is the hardened center on which you must swallow or choke. He said the Scourge had peeled all his layers at once. It was never clear to me what Papa was talking about until then. I understood his example easily enough, but not the experience of it. In that moment, it settled on me and I was mixed with a sensation of pride for my understanding and a simple, unflinching loss. No matter what colors or scents or sounds lay beyond those brightly lit gates, it was all show, all illusion, and knowing that, when Mr. and Mrs.

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