The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus by Clive Barker, David Niall Wilson, Richard A. Kirk Read Free Book Online Page B

incessantly from the murky November sky.
    “Mud!” exclaimed Malachi delightedly, and immediately proceeded to roll in it.
    Domingo de Ybarrondo sneezed.
    “Bless you, my boy, bless you,” said Mr. Bacchus. “Right! Let us erect the stage! And the flags! Don’t forget the flags!” Then in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, he began to sing:
     
    “Bring me my bow of burning gold
    Bring me my arrows of desire!
    And dum de da de dum divine
    Bring me my chariot of fire,
    De dum upon those clouded mills …”
     
    “I wish he’d learn the words,” said Bathsheba.
    “Or better still,” said Malachi, “not sing at all.”
    As they put up the stage, the rain began to come on more heavily, and the somber clouds were occasionally lit by distant lightning.
    “Angelo, my boy,” said Mr. Bacchus, when the preparations for the performance were nearing completion. “Take the big drum and go into the town! Tell the people that the show will begin half an hour before sunset precisely. Malachi will go with you.”
    “Oh no, Malachi won’t,” said the crocodile. “Malachi is staying in the mud where he’s happy.”
    “I’ll go,” Bathsheba volunteered, picking up the drum and beating it as hard as she could. “We’ll have an audience in no time.”
    Angelo and Bathsheba had just disappeared down the road to the town when Domingo, who had wandered off across the rain-veiled field to practice his juggling, came running back breathlessly.
    “Bacchus! Bacchus!” he cried, the rain dripping off the end of his nose. “Do you know where we are?”
    “In a field,” Mr. Bacchus said.
    “But this isn’t just any field,” said Domingo, and he pointed to the far edge. Everybody followed his finger. Where the dead ground came to an end, there was a signpost, and after that—nothing. Only a wall of grey cloud. It looked as if there were a huge hole in the field, with no far side.
    “What does the signpost say?” asked Mr. Bacchus, screwing up his eyes, and searching for his glasses, which he had left in Delphi, in his waistcoat pocket. Domingo de Ybarrondo went paler than ever under his makeup.
    “It says: This is Where the World Ends,” he replied.
    “What?” said Malachi. “Where the World Ends?”
    “Yes,” said the Clown. “Look for yourself. The field just stops, and there is nothing but sky and clouds, and an endless drop.”
    They all crossed the field through the foul mud and rotting nettles, and approached the Edge of the World. The signpost was correct. This was definitely where the world ended. They all stared blankly at the wall of cloud, and the wall of cloud stared blankly back. Hero broke the silence.
    “Where’s Cathay?” he said.
    “It isn’t here,” replied Ophelia, and began to cry.
    “We’ve taken the wrong turn somewhere along the way,” said Malachi. “I said we shouldn’t trust your sense of direction, Bacchus.”
    “I wouldn’t like to fall over there,” said Hero. “You never know where you’d end up.”
    “I agree,” said Domingo. “I think we ought to go and camp somewhere else. I mean suppose the caravan rolled off the edge in the middle of the night?”
    “It’s never rolled anywhere before,” said Malachi.
    “Of course it hasn’t, my boy,” said Mr. Bacchus confidently. “I have great faith in the caravan. It’s a remarkably sensible caravan. Don’t fret yourself. It won’t roll away. Take my word for it.”
     
    ****
     
    When Angelo and Bathsheba returned form the town, they looked downhearted.
    “There’s nobody in the streets,” said Angelo. “The town looks completely deserted. All the doors are bolted, the windows nailed down, and the curtains drawn. The people must have locked themselves in their houses. It’s most peculiar.”
    “What’s this?” exclaimed Mr. Bacchus. “In their houses? When Mr. Maximillian Bacchus’ Circus is in town? Never!” And he took the drum from Bathsheba, put the strap around his neck, and, yelling: “Follow me,