XXV
As The Young Cripple swung back and forth, she thought about falling. She wasn’t scared of dying as much as she was, falling from this sort of height and surviving. This would be just the type of thing that would happen to her. She tried to breathe heavily and focus just on that, but her thoughts were swayed and accosted by the sound of splitting fibres from poorly woven ropes, and the creaking from eroding buckles, and rusted carabiners. As she swung back and forth in her century-old harness, The Young Cripple set her breath into a panicked flight, and her thoughts of death and disaster became so patently clear.
“What are you?” asked The Young Boy, beneath the crooked lean of The Demon, with a sense of bravado that may or may not have been a symptom of his illness.
The Demon exhaled, and its musky breath smelt like depression. Instantly, the boy thought of his father, and the stench that followed him like an echo of his sadness. It was the fetid smell of the shirt that he hadn’t washed or taken off in God knows how many months, and that was still stained with dirt and blood, from when he had buried his wife. And it was the blouse too, of which The Father cried into every night, and clung too, as if were all that he had, so that he wouldn’t forget her. That and his constant drinking had made his breath reek. On any one of his better days, The Father smelled like a rank mix of mould, sweat, whisky, and septic water.
The Young Boy thought first of his father, but then, as the stale air about him settled on his skin, in the back of his throat, and in the folds of his eyes, he thought about everyone in the town that had died. And he could pick out each person’s own unique depression as if he were naming spices in a stew. There was the teacher, the baker, and the bully. And there was the neighbour, the doctor, and the vagabond.
The Young Boy could feel their sadness, and he could hear it too, as his ears caught on to an endless spiel of confessions. He listened intently, and at first, it was impossible to make out a word or a syllable. But as his thoughts relaxed, brought on by some venom in The Demon’s breath, The Young Boy’s mind started to clear of the frustrated and illiterate fog, and his focus began to sharpen, so much that, not only could he hear what was being said, but he could see too, just who was saying it.
He watched, as if he were there, each person who had long since died, declaring their love. And though the air was full of sadness, the looks on their faces, and the exhilaration that trembled their breaths, that which had them tripping over their words, was anything but. Each person looked as if they had found their brevity, and upon this promise, their lives were about to begin. Neither person looked as if they knew that a horrible curse was about to befell them. The Demon’s breath reeked of a lifetime of sadness. And at the end of that breath, it spoke.
“Come,” it said, extending its long quills; its open hand now looking like some carnivorous flower.
The Young Boy urged to fight, but he could not. The illness had robbed him not only of his strength, but of his co-ordination, and of the feeling too, in his fingers and his toes.
“You did to this,” said the boy, wanting to swing his fist, but barely able to move his tongue.
The Demon shook its head.
“Come,” it said.
“All those people, they all died because of you. You are the curse,” said The Young Boy.
The Young Boy struggled to talk. His tongue felt like it had been moulded in plastic. As he spoke, he could feel parts of it caught between his teeth, but it caused him no harm and no immediate pain. Even if it did, there was little that could rattle this child. If worry were a currency, this boy would be broke and destitute.
“Come,” said The Demon.
“Why? Why are you here? Why did this happen to us?”
The Demon shook it heads again. This time, it scowled.
“Come,” it said, its voice now sounding like a chainsaw.
The Demon left the boy for a second before it turned back and began its singular call. “Come,” it said, over and over. As difficult as it was, The Young Boy got to his feet and moved like a drunkard, in the direction of the arborous thing that was luring him, away from the girl’s carriage and towards the bright lights and jovial shouting beneath The Big Top.
“Wait,” shouted The Young Boy.
The Demon stopped for a second, and it turned.
“Show me my mother,” said the boy. “You cursed her too. Then show me her confession, just like you showed the others.”
The Demon continued walking.
“You took her from me. I want to know why. I demand to see. It’s my right,” shouted The Young Boy, as if it actually was; as if he had some kind of leverage over The Demon.
But there was no leverage. And the boy knew this. So as The Demon trudged along through the encampment, ignorant to his weightless demands, The Young Boy did his best to follow. But with every second his condition worsened, and his bloody nose quickly turned into vivid delusions, and uncontrollable shakes and tremors, which had him fumbling and stumbling over this and that, and a host of terrible things that were not actually there.
As painful as every step had now become, The Young Boy didn’t halter. He continued in The Demon’s footprints until he was standing at the entrance to The Big Top, with a limbless man swinging back and forth like a pendulum, welcoming him through the door.
“Be quick my lad,” he said. “It’s best to rush, not to think, and just be quick, as quick as you can. You’ll not want to miss the grand spectacular.”
Dizzy, The Young Boy looked for something to grip. The sight of the swinging man had caused his mind to list, and his capsizing thoughts began to swish about like water, at the bottom of a sinking ship.
“Don’t be shy, lad. I can see that you’re sick. But let that be no bother. For inside this tent, you will find salvation, the cure for all ills.”
Behind the swinging man, The Demon stood, calling the boy through.
The Young Boy waited until the right moment before entering, so as not to be knocked over as he hobbled past. As he entered the tent, he was given a small torch, a glass of cloudy looking water, and a kiss on the cheek. “Let Light be with you,” the person said.
The Young Boy followed The Demon up the bleachers, and he apologized profusely to one and all as he as knocked into knees and elbows, shuffling his way through the crowd until he got to where The Demon was, and he collapsed in his seat.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said The Ringmaster. “Thank you so much for sharing this, our first night, and our first performance with us. We feel, in the short time that we have been in your community, as if finally, after all these years of wandering and roaming….We feel that we are home.”
The crowd erupted in cheer.
In the centre of the stage, The Ringmaster stood in a wash of amber. His suit looked astounding and so did he. It was hard to look at him and to speak in anything other the superlative.
“A great tragedy has ravaged this town, it is true. But do you feel that sadness here anymore?” he asked.
“No,” shouted the crowd.
“Do you feel sorrow?”
“No,” they shouted.
“Do you feel depression?”
“No,” they all said.
The Young Boy looked at The Demon beside him, and then back at the chanting and cheering crowd, people who only days before, stank just like his father and who were now, like different people; as if all of the thoughts and memories that made them who they were had been erased. Nobody who had suffered in the way that this town had suffered would smile as they did right now. Nobody who had done, even half of the terrible things which these people had had to do, would be able to act in this way. These were not the same people.
The Young Boy sat quietly beside The Demon and watched the stage.
“There is love in each and every one of you. It is a love that we all share. It is a love that is unique, that could be described in a hundred thousand ways, and yet, for each of us, it is the very same love. My children, as you all are now, I can tell you that each
of you carry God in your heart. Each of you is a being of Light. All fear is the absence of truth, committing our hearts and our lives upon a fretful journey with a compass whose needle cannot find north. But here, together, we have north. We have God. We have Light. And Light, it was always with you. You were never alone. But now for the first time, you can see it. And it is wonderful. You have been divorced from the burden of death. There is no more fear,” shouted The Ringmaster, to the jubilance of the audience who rose onto the rafters and clapped their hands in thunderous applause.
“There is no fear,” they shouted. “There is no fear.”
“Light will prevail,” said The Ringmaster. “Now let me hear you.”
“Light will prevail,” they all said, over and over again. “Light will prevail.”
The Young Boy stared at The Demon, whose hands were caged as a fist.
“And now, for tonight’s grand spectacular, we have for you the greatest storyteller to have ever walked this earth. Some say she is a prophet, whose vision of Heaven has helped us, as men and women, to shape ourselves to be more akin to the grace and divinity that awaits us in our deaths. It would be no exaggeration to say that this was true. Our final act for tonight, ladies and gentlemen, has for you, the greatest story ever written, and the only story that one need know. My dear, dear family, in the name of Light, the Sun of God, and in the name of all that is good and holy, in Heaven and here on Earth, I present to you, The Incredible Accordion Girl.”
The lights dimmed.
The crowd held their breaths.
And The Young Crippled descended from above by a host of cables and wires. The one man band beat on his drum and strummed away on his guitar. As the girl hovered just above the stage, a massive floodlight burst in her direction and it caused her to fright, so that her body swung like the man at the entrance, back and forth, up and down. And as she did, her legs, which were like folded paper, bounced up and down to the rhythm of the music coming from beneath the stage.
At first the crowd said nothing, staring in disgust at her bent and twisted legs and at how they moved up and down, just like an accordion. Then, as The Young Cripple started to weep, the audience broke out into laughter, pointing at her in mocking hysterics, as if her torturous discomfort were part of the show.
Hanging there under a boiling spotlight, with her legs like folded springs, The Young Cripple stared out into the crowd. And as she fought to see past their debasing laughter and her own deformed state, she could have sworn she that she saw the young boy whose heart she had stolen, and beside him, a faceless demon who, in the way that it was slouched, looked as if its discomfort was greater than hers.
The Young Cripple wept.
And the more she wept, the more they laughed.
Staring out at the stage, The Young Boy’s heart beat so fast that it almost stopped.
The Demon held his hand.
“Once upon…,” said The Young Cripple, her voice tiptoeing in and out of stutter. “Once upon a time, there was nothing, there was only darkness and the void. But then, one day, there came a rattling and a cracking, and there came a crashing kind of sound.”
As she spoke, from beneath the stage, a team of engineers wobbled sheets of metal and struck hammers against plates, saucers, and dusty, old dinosaur bones. Their racket embossed The Young Cripple’s every word, which then echoed throughout The Big Top.
“And then there was Light,” she said, as the whole stage lit up, showing what looked like a tiny garden with tiny flowers and upon them, even tinier insects.
As she hanged there, floating above the stage, her accordion like legs sprung up and down, but never enough so that her feet could touch the ground. There was still one or two of the townsfolk who were caught in deriding laughter, unable to help themselves. They were quickly attended to by a dozen beautiful men and women in coloured pants, who then guided the two townsfolk to a secluded space, where each went through another round of healing. And after a short period of mild shocks and a brief interrogation, both members of the audience were deemed cured and were allowed to take their places, back in the bleachers.
The stage now flooded with colourful caricatures, with miniature and oversized animals, fishes, dinosaurs, and bunny rabbits; all running and jumping and flying and burrowing their way around the props, each stepping into the spotlight and waiting for a second before being named by The Young Cripple, and then scurrying back into the dimly lit garden upon the stage.
Off stage, The Ringmaster riled.
“What are you doing?” he whispered in dire urgency.
Delilah ignored her lover.
“Get her off the stage,” shouted The Ringmaster, to anyone who’d listen. “Who let her on? Where is the real bloody actor? And where the fuck is Rex?”
The Young Cripple hadn’t even noticed that the wrong woman was on the stage. “And in that Light,” she said, continuing her monologue. “There was a woman whose job it was, was to name all of the creatures in the garden, and all of the insects, and germs, and bacteria too, from the beastly and bulking, to the minute and microscopic. And she carried in her womb, the sun. And then one day, a stranger came into her garden. He wore a striking suit and had long hair, tied in a ponytail. His skin was pale as if he had just succumbed to a terrific fright. And his eyes were like two tiny black pin holes, pressed into what looked like a face, sculpted from grey splotchy clay.”
As she spoke, the imperious figure stepped onto the stage, much to the riling boos and banter from the audience who, by now, were shouting at the beautiful woman, who stood beside The Young Cripple, to banish him, and to cast him out of the garden.
“What is your name?” said Delilah, to the imperious figure.
“I have none,” replied the man, with a plaid expression, and tiny holes for eyes.
“I am Lucifer,” said Delilah, “the bringer of Light. And now that I can see you, if you so wish, like all of the wonder in my garden, I can give you a name.”
“The imperious figure looked around the garden,” said The Young Cripple, “and saw how all of the animals, and the plants too, how they all basked in the woman’s radiant glow. And he could feel the warmth that spilled off her skin like morning dew. But as he stepped closer to the woman, and as he neared her ray of Light, a sinister urge beckoned him.”
The audience erupted, throwing food and splinters at the stage.
“Cast him out, cast him out,” they screamed, for they all knew the story, and they knew exactly what was to come.
“It’s not a name that I seek,” spoke the imperious figure, “unless of course you aim to name my condition, which worsens, now that I can see you; now that you exist.”
“The imperious figure’s heart was betrothed with desire,” said The Young Cripple. “A simple kiss would not suffice.”
“There is no Light in your eyes,” said Delilah, taking a small pistol from her bosom.
The Young Cripple looked muddled. The actor had run off script. She turned, ready to feed the next line, and then she thought she saw, in the corner of her eye, the bearded whore, and her heart stopped.
There was quiet on the stage, and all about The Big Top too, as one and all held onto their breaths in sheer nerve, watching as Delilah slowly loaded the pistol with three small arborous bullets, waiting for her next line.
“There never was any to begin with,” continued Delilah, aiming the gun at The Young Cripple’s temple.
“Delilah,” shouted The Ringmaster, storming onto the stage. “What in tarnation are you doing? Stick to the goddamn script.”
Instantly, The Young Cripple thought of the questions she had asked the boy. She stared at him, through the bright spotlight. And she was taken aback by how deeply he looked into her, with such ferocious needing in his eyes. Such was the intensity and ravenous nature of his stare that The Young Cripple felt guilty, for what she had done to him.
“I’m sorry,’ mouthed The Young Cripple, to the boy who was bleeding to death in the bleachers, in
the merciful clutch of a demon.
“I’m sorry,” said Delilah to her lover.
Then three shots rang out under The Big Top.
And a cripple, a master, and a whore all died.
“I once spent a weekend on Earth,
With 2 men of science and god.
One man convinced me I did not exist,
And the other that I was a fraud.
In both men I saw the same reason,
In both men I saw the same light.
So I left for another dimension,
Assuming that both men were right.”
-The Alien