An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Because his suffering is as great as his need," the boy said as he kneeled, turning his attention again to the old man. The boy then took the dying man by a shoulder and began to lift him up. "Will you help me?" the boy asked again.

Timothy recoiled from the blood and the sores that erupted into view on the old man's arms, and he stepped back, looked from the boy back to the lioness. "No. No, we should leave him where he sits, he is too ill to be moved..."

The lioness stepped forward and Timothy quailed before the menace, then tried to step away from the animal's lingering gaze. His mouth was dry, he noticed, his body trembling, then he saw the boy walking silently up the hill, the leper by his side.

"Well, Charity," Mr Christian whispered, "You have met your God. What did you think of him?"

+++++

The Guild Master walked behind Mr Christian once again, only this time deeper into the castle. He studied the man ahead as he walked, and from time to time he received the impression that this magician was somehow not quite real, that he was as a shadow projected by flames on a wall inside a cave, a kind of dream within a dream.

"You said I knew you once," the Guild Master said at last, speaking to the shadows by his side.

"The air was different the last time we met. Do you not remember?"

"No, and I don't understand the things you speak of."

"I had hoped," the magician intoned softly. "Now I must caution you, Envy. What you find next will unsettle you, but you must not run from that which you seek."

"Seek?" the Guild Master asked, now confused. "Do you say that I am here to find something?"

"Two souls beckon, Odysseus. Can you not yet hear them calling?"

+++++

"And just what do you think I am?" Timothy cried to the magician as he turned and walked away. "My brother's keeper?"

"Aptly spoken, young Cain. Wrath suits you well." The old man continued walking towards the cool, clear waters of the stream.

"And you are nothing but hate and deceit, old man."

"Come, Wrath, we may have more to see this day."

"And suppose I don't want to come? Then what?"

The old man stopped and turned to face Timothy, and with soft pity in his voice he said: "In that case, here you will stay."

"Where? Right here?" Timothy cried, pointing at the ground beneath his feet.

"Yes, on this hillside. For all eternity."

"I want you to take me back right now," Timothy said in a petulant huff, crossing his arms and stamping a foot. "I want you to take me to my farm, right now!"

"Then come with me, Timothy. I will show you to your family."

The old man turned and began walking, and Timothy followed -- but at a distance. They walked and walked, for hours -- or so it seemed -- until they came to field. Timothy shuddered to a stop, for he recognized this place, this field. He was home! The home of his brothers, and Jennifer, yet something wan't quite right. He found himself running blindly, searching and searching for their house, for Na-Taka-Ri's cabin in the forest, but every hint that he or his family had ever lived on the hillside overlooking the Charles had been silently, and most efficiently swept away.

+++++

Langston remained in the frigid water with his hands visible, while the two men on the rocky beach stood their ground, arrows drawn and ready to fly. His teeth chattering, his legs and feet burning from the cold water, he took one step towards the shore, then another. When he stood in chest deep water he saw the men on the shore point and retreat into the tall grass beyond. In his dulled state of mind he wondered what might have caused them to flee...until he felt a presence in the water behind. He turned, and half expecting to see the magician he was shocked to find a large gray fish hovering silently in the water, a grin on it long snout, and a frank expression of compassion in it's ancient eyes.

He saw a wound under it's eye and instinctively reached out to touch it; the fish -- if it was indeed a fish -- rolled onto it's side and swam away a few feet, then returned. The fish rolled again, and as if offering a hand, a fin emerged from the water and Langston took it. He slipped through the water towards the beach with astonishing speed, and a moment later he stood in ankle deep water. He turned towards this fish and saw it breathing through a blow-hole like a whale, and he recalled knowing the name of this beast once but he simply couldn't think of it now. They looked at one another for a long time, then the beast slipped under the inky surface of the icy water and was gone.

A freshening breeze held Langston in it's icy grip, and he knew that with his wet clothing still on he would soon freeze to death -- unless he made a fire, and quickly. He turned to the shore and once again the two men were standing there now not five feet away, and this was the last thing he saw before his world turned black, and pain came for him with all it's urgent need.

Dreams came first. Dreams of tumbling through the sky, of fire peeling away the skin over his heart and legions of dark beasts poring forth to devour this land. Dreams of people, hundreds -- if not thousands of people falling under the onslaught of vast, snarling beasts. Huge armies filled his dreams, slaughter without end unfolded in lurid detail as men fought for hundreds of years to secure a tiny hill, and a village by the sea.

He felt something damp on his forehead, a hand lifting his head from behind, something bitter like tea passing into his mouth.

And he opened his eyes.

Na-Taka-Ri was there beside him, and he fell before an overwhelming warmth, a flooding tide of relief coursing through his body. He felt his breath come in ragged sobs, and he tried to speak but no words came, and he wondered why.

His neck burned, and he brought his hands up to feel the skin there and he instinctively knew his throat had been cut -- yet not too deeply. No, he was alive, so not too deeply.

Na-Taka-Ri held a stone out for him to see, a sharp stone, and she pantomimed a body falling, falling and striking the stone -- and he understood. He nodded, tried to smile, then noticed he was inside some sort low-ceilinged hut. The lodge was not unlike those he had seen in Na-Taka-Ri's village, yet this one was subtly different. The walls were thicker, the fireplace larger, like his family's own house. Like people who had to struggle to stay warm.

Of course! He remembered the wall of ice he had seen earlier, and the bitter cold water. He thought he must be far, far to the north, but then he remembered the hills around the beach had reminded him of home and all his thoughts fell before a mountain of doubt.

And this girl, this native girl was not Na-Taka-Ri. She appeared smaller in every way, much smaller, though she appeared older than he. Her skin was different too, much darker, and her eyelids were peculiar.

"Chinoni-wa?" she asked, then pantomimed bringing food to her mouth.

"No. No, I'm not hungry." He shook his head and smiled.

She nodded understanding.

Bringing his hands to his chest, he said: "My name is Langston."

"Langston?" she said, though with difficulty.

"Yes," he smiled as he pointed at himself. "Langston!" Then he pointed at her: "Your name is?"

She had been watching him point at himself and simply couldn't make sense of his actions or his words, so she stood and walked out of the lodge. Langston watched the woman leave and was stunned when he saw the woman wasn't much more than four feet tall. He sat up and his head began throbbing, and soon he fell back into a deep sleep.

When he next awoke he was immediately aware that the people in the village were facing some fresh crisis; he heard anguished cries, frantic activity outside the lodge where he had been kept since his arrival. He heard a trumpeting cry, a vast thundering shook the earth and the woman who had been caring for him ran into the lodge and pulled him up from the ground, motioned him to follow.

His head pounding, the searing pain in his neck almost overwhelming, he followed the woman out into the open. A small herd of wooly, elephantine creatures was pillaging the village, using their huge tusks to overturn any and everything in their path, and the woman pulled him from the beasts' advance moments before several came and demolished the lodge he had just left. Seeing the danger they were in, Langston grabbed the woman and tossed her over his shoulder, then sprinted from the village to the protection of a thicket of scrubby trees. Several villagers were already hiding there, and they appeared quite afraid.

He looked back down into the village, saw a group of men throwing spears, another isolated group using bow and arrow to counter-attack, but the beasts were simply too huge, their matted wooly covering affording a kind of dense, protective armor. The men made to retreat but soon found themselves surrounded by the beasts, who then advanced into the two groups of men -- knocking them down with their huge tusks and trampling the survivors. Fires broke out within crumbling lodges, and the beast reacted to the fire by turning and fleeing towards the coastal plain, saving several men from certain death.

And during all this, Langston sat and analyzed the massacre.

First, he noted, the village was sited in such a way that any enemy could easily overrun it; there were simply no natural defenses incorporated into it's design, and he wondered how these people could have survived so long in such a competitive environment. The next thing he noted was the villager's crude weaponry: their bows were little more than simple branches, their spears too were inadequate to the need. The bows they used simply could not deliver an arrow on target with enough force to damage so large a foe, and their spears were not strong enough to hurt one of the beasts.

When the villagers assembled to begin the hard work of reconstructing their homes, Langston sought a more protected spot to place the woman's lodge, and quickly found one amongst a series of rocky outcroppings. He pointed to the ledge and the woman seemed to understand, and he began hauling materials to the new site. Villagers stopped and watched him, and only then did they appear to take note of his thinking; over there within the sheltering rocky outcroppings, their lodges would not be so exposed. How interesting! Two days later the entire village was nestled within the protective warrens of the ledge, and Langston pantomimed how to place sentries -- concealed near top of the ledge to help provide more warning time.

Next, he found sharp edged scree and fashioned a sort of plane, and began smoothing and shaping a proper bow, just as Na-Taka-Ri's villagers had shown him. He used steam to bend the bow into a proper curve, and then he braided sinew to make a much stronger bow string. Using the villagers stock of arrows, he demonstrated the new bows strength and accuracy, and the men regarded him with new admiration, if not awe. He spent the next few weeks teaching all the villagers how to use slate and steam to manipulate wood into all sorts of formidable new shapes, and made a primitive lathe to fashion cups to drink from.

The woman who cared for him had apparently been chosen for the task by the village's elders and was, Langston assumed, a widow. As he gained status in the village, so too did the woman, and she now watched over him protectively, keeping all the other women away -- all the time. He regarded her from time to time himself, and despite her tiny size he found her most attractive, sometimes wondering what she made of him.

For he was a good two feet taller than any of the villagers, man or woman, and his skin was blazing white compared to their deep, mahogany-toned skin. Now, even after several weeks in the village they sat up from their tasks and regarded him carefully when he walked among the new lodges, yet he realized there was no way he would ever completely fit in this new environment.

The villagers cooked in a communal area and shared everything that was gathered for their meals, and when one night, after she brought a dinner of corn and venison and was beginning to clean up before sleeping, he regarded her anew, as a man regards a woman he wants to bed. And she noticed too.

She undressed and stood before him, then came and began to remove his 17th-century garments. He helped her when he could, but he felt himself growing and growing as her hands approached his nether regions, and when at last he was exposed he watched as she reacted in almost abject awe at the size of the monster she had released. Langston had simply never considered the matter important before, but now the size differential between the villagers and himself made the issue embarrassingly obvious. His rod was as long as her forearm and as big around as her ankles, and he could see now that the woman was caught between the urge to flee and an overwhelming curiosity.

Curiosity easily overcame reticence. She started with her hands, then used her mouth, and as it had been weeks since Langston had exercised his staff he startled the woman with an eruption of epic volume. She took all he had to offer and kept at her labor until he was ready again, and when it was time she hovered over him, trying to decide on the wisdom of this course of action, but he rubbed the tip of his spear over her opening a few times -- and the matter was settled. He held his staff while she lowered herself, and he watched her face for...

Her screams kept the village awake all through the night.

+++++

Jeremiah sat on the damp grass, struggling to put on the green garments the magician had left him with, and in a blinding flash found himself inside a tent...

He heard cannon fire, then muskets before the charge, and knew the carnage was getting underway -- yet again.

Soon litter-bearers were carrying the wounded to the tent, and as the division surgeon he had to decide who to save, and whom to let slip away.

Hours later he was examining yet another shattered leg, trying to decide the best place to make his cut. He picked up the knife, and the saw he'd used all day and began his work, using a hot, glowing poker to seal off broken vessels before his patient succumbed to the pain, and when he had finished he turned to the next...

And he was in the captain's cabin, looking out slanted windows as the French man o'war closed the range. The captain was on deck, readying the next broadside when the turn to post came... A volley of grapeshot tore through the sails and he heard a fresh round of screams...

And he looked out over the wall, at the seething hordes coming at the gates under torchlight, the men by his side readying huge vats of boiling oil. He'd best head to the infirmary now, ready his tools...

He woke from the dream when he heard his name on the PA, looked at his phone and wondered how long he'd been out...

+++++

Esterhaus sat at a piano, wondering how he'd arrived in this crazy looking room. He'd never played an instrument of any kind, not ever, though he sang in church -- when the spirit moved him...but anyway, this place! Hideous!

High ceilings, everything shades of gray. A vast mural on the ceiling, a woman singing in the distance, a dog curled at his feet -- sleeping.

"Claude!"

He turned back to the piano, played a progression of chords then picked up a quill and scratched notes on lined paper resting atop of the piano.

"Is that the new piece? Moonlight?"

"Yes," Esterhaus said, but no, that wasn't quite right, was it? "No...but, what did you say?"

"Are you working on 'Moonlight' again?"

"Ah, no, something that's been rattling around in my mind for a while. That tone poem, about a faun waking from a nap."

"Have you been reading Wagner again!?"

He laughed. "No, but there was something in that piece..."

"Yes. Too much Wagner!"

"You seem to imply there was something wicked about the man. I enjoyed his company very much, you know. As did you, I seem to recall."

"And I'll never let you live that down!" Marian walked into the room, came to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "You've been at it for hours on end...won't you take a rest?" she said as she rubbed the muscles in his neck.

He shook his head. "I need to write. Something is calling me, you know. I think, perhaps, it is death."

"I think it is the Germans..."

"They grow near?"

"They will enter the city within the week, I hear."

"I think perhaps you should take Emma and ChouChou to the coast, away from all this madness."

"That will never happen, my friend. I will remain by your side, always."

He reached around, took her hand in his and held it to his face. "You've always been there, haven't you?"

"And I will be with you, always. Forever, my dear Claude."

"I am having trouble with this phrasing..."

"Here, let's see if we can work it out..."

There was a young man behind them, standing in the shadowlands, listening intently as new music came to the man and woman at the piano. "We can work it out...?" he sighed. "I like the ring of that."

+++++

He stood on the bow, by the stem, with sword in hand, the battered shield he had carried for twenty years in the other. Seven years on that island, in the clutches of the wretched woman, seven more years from his wife and boy, ten years since he left Troy. He raised the shield and looked at the image -- the dolphin with the scars under it's eye -- and he looked at the animal in the water.

"Could it be?"

She seemed to think so, and with Ithaca now ahead, just visible through this morning's haze, she seemed insistent, almost agitated.

When he could stand it no more, when thoughts of Penelope's warm embrace overwhelmed all control, he dove into the water...and she was there beside him, as she had been so many times -- in his dreams. He took her fin and rode through the wind and the waves, closing rapidly on the rocky shore...

And there, on the rocks, a dog...

But not Argos, surely not Argos, but the dog jumped into the surf and began swimming out to meet him...

+++++

Langston woke the morning after his first all night 'sextathalon' with the giddy sensation of having done something seriously wrong -- but enjoying the night very much nonetheless, and when the woman woke later that morning, sore all over and barely able to walk, he was concerned -- until he saw her infectious smile. He watched her talking later that day, with other women from the village, saw them react with shock and awe when she -- apparently -- described their encounter, and he didn't know whether to be proud or embarrassed by his over-endowed performance. Even the men in the village regarded him anew after that, and wherever he went all eyes seemed to linger on his groin -- for much longer than was polite.

Langston and the woman enjoyed their newfound friendship, and as he'd not once considered any social or moral repercussions to this flowering relationship, he'd enjoyed the most guilt free sex of his life. No one in the village seemed to judge him, either, not even the men who'd found him in the water. With no one to castigate him for having a relationship with this native woman, this non-Christian woman, or for being with a woman outside the colony's sphere of influence, he felt the shackles of moral ambiguity slip from his soul. There's became a life of simple routines -- of work during the day followed by an evening meal with the village, and then pure unadulterated sex for hours on end. She was a fierce, possessive lover, and he knew he was lucky to grab even a few hours of sleep each night, yet one night another woman joined them, and more even more screams pierced the night, and still there were no judgmental airs the next day, just a simple acceptance of what had come to be. He felt shocked at first, then he asked himself why... Why feel shame for something that was so natural?