The Rise of the Clowns: Kirkos

1

Csoda stood on the stage using all of his strength to pull the muscles along his spine and neck together so he remained straight and tall. This simple effort to stand was difficult to maintain. His body was skeletal, his muscles weak. His effort made even harder by thick lacerations, both old and new, cut across his back, chest, legs and arms. The act of standing pulled apart the edges of the fresher wounds leaving them open to release slow trickles of blood.

He held back his gaunt features from wincing when his own thick sweat pooled in the open wounds, its salt stinging. He refused to wince, refused to slump over in pain, even though his body begged him to do so. He defied his body’s desire to collapse by focusing on the pain that tormented him. He recognized the pain, let its sting travel through his frame and then, eventually, adapted to it so that it dissipated, at least from his attention.

This is how he chose to face his torment, with a straight spine and resolute expression. The starvation had made his eyes look bigger than normal, large globes sunken into the wide sockets of his skull, haloed by dark recessed shadows. Still his eyes had fire as he stared defiantly ahead, their gaze steady and strong despite his emaciation. His sharp edged jaw stayed set. His high cut cheekbones framed a thin lipped mouth and his nostrils flared as they took in deep breaths of the molten desert air.

Before him a crowd of strangers stretched out from the base of the stage to the edges of the stone walled arena. Their forms were both familiar and foreign to him. Their clothing, dyed in rich colors, was in sharp contrast to the raw and nearly naked humanity of Csoda’s tortured body. Their voices were a wall of sound that only occasionally released a trickle of words he could hear and understand. Their language was familiar, but it was not his native tongue.

A desert breeze had swept into the open arena as Csoda was forced onto the stage. The breeze’s intensity grew steadily as he stood there, but instead of being a blessing from the heat, the wind was a furnace blast against his already sunburnt skin.

Small blisters bubbled up on his shoulders, along the tops of his bare feet, and around the edges of the fiery hot metal cuffs shackled to his wrists and ankles. The metal collar around his neck inflamed the blood pulsing through his jugular so that he felt the heat deeply circulating through his body and brain. His only protection from the midday sun was a dirty, bloodied and thread barren cloth they allowed him to wrap around his waist, its tattered hem stopping right above his bony knees.

With the hot wind came more than physical torture. The heat brought memories of blackening hissing smoke covering the skies and filling Csoda’s lungs. This memory tightened in his throat, filled his gut with a rock of anger and shame and, for a moment, Csoda’s body slowly swayed, rocking ever so slightly. The vision from his eyes blurred and the hot air burned his tears, unforgivingly drying them into white salt on his cheeks.

His steady gaze wavered with emotion as the memory created shadows before his drying eyes. Shadows of the ashen faces of the dead, his family, his people. His heart pulsed in his ears, drummed in an aching rhythm that he had never heard before, a deadening pulse of soul shattering pain. For a moment the memory held him, and it was the memory, not the torture or his weakness, that almost brought him to collapse.

Yet, before the memory destroyed his will the sounds of the crowd pulled him away from the horror of his past and back to his present hell. Little tendrils of conversations reached him from their ambient rumblings. Voices echoed, gasps and murmurs that he understood, That is him?…My…he doesn’t even look afraid… Their awe reached out on invisible threads and sent strength back into his form. The reasoning for his current efforts was justified by those statements. At least they would know that, despite everything, he still could stand.

With his will newly strengthened he dared to look out into the crowd and saw them as a mass of noisy, dusty color that moved as one shape before him. He could feel their energy. He could push his own energy mentally towards them and when he did he watched the shape react to his efforts. It rippled ever so slightly like a veil of color and noise that had been touched by a slight wind.

To the crowd, Csoda still looked tall and solid. This is what he put his energy into, his straight spine, his refusal to be lessened as a man. He pushed the dark memories aside and focused on all the strength that was left within him. He focused, even in this moment, on the collapse of the evil powers that had bound him and destroyed his people. He focused on righteous anger and with it he imagined the walls of this cursed stage he stood upon ripping to shreds.

For an instant he actually believed he could see the massive crowd surging towards the walls. He could hear the sound of rubble crashing to the floor. The roar of men and beasts reverberated against his chest as they pulled it all down around him in a storm of anger.

He felt the rumble of thunder deep within him and he imagined himself dancing as he used to, his body undulating behind a stretched leather drum that he would hold before him like a shield, his face hidden behind a veil of beaded cowrie shells. He danced to the thunder, to the storm, to the anger, his body new and strong again. He imagined his voice, thick and wet, singing out, over and through the destruction and its sound relieved him from the dehydration and heat.

The crowd shape shifted to his imagined music, its form became more transparent with every hit he played on his unseen drum. The crowd’s sounds and colors muted, it whispered and hummed until its entire form became more like a curtain that waved quietly in front of an open window. The illusion gave him a moment of peace–a mirage–making him feel as if a cool breeze caressed his tortured skin.

All but one figure had fallen away into this faceless curtain. A young boy, surprisingly clean, dressed in a strange multicolored checkered tunic. A floppy leather three-pointed hat with the points facing down was cocked loosely at a tilted angle on his head. The boy stood in the front row staring right at Csoda with intense greenish blue eyes. He looked around nervously, as if he was unsure of where he stood and then he glanced worriedly down at something in his hands. When the boy looked up and met Csoda’s gaze, he still seemed confused, but compassionate.

Csoda? The boy said quietly, but his voice came as clear as if he was standing right next to Csoda’s side, as if they existed alone in a private room. Father? The watch…it is not working… The boy looked back down at his hands, tapping the object he held. Csoda heard a small dog bark in the distance as the boy’s voice began to drift away and he realized that this boy’s voice, so comforting, was speaking in his native tongue, Csoda?….Father?

The mass crowd shape came flooding back with a wailing roar and a wave of billowing color that overcame the image of the boy. Csoda’s thoughts rushed through his confused mind, Did he say Father?…What is a ‘watch’?

Then these questions were cut short from his concern. He felt a shearing pain across his neck as the chain on his collar was yanked backwards. Suddenly, there were hands grasping his wrists and legs. The growling crowd was deafening. His head was being pulled backwards, his mouth pried open, the hot air flooded into his dry throat and across his swollen tongue.

He heard the Emperor’s angry voice echoing from somewhere behind him, HOW DO YOU LIKE THE REVOLUTIONARY POET NOW?!

A flash of metal glinted in front of his eyes. His mouth filled with hot pain and blood, his scream came but was muted as his own parched throat filled. He was drowning in his own blood. His senses were engulfed with the smell of fire, his own burning flesh, the muscle tearing grip of multiple hands on his arms and legs, the screams of the massive crowd–and then…finally…darkness.

2

The first thing noticed was sound.

Even before it could be identified as a sound it was present, for it ebbed and flowed with each shallow breath, hummed with the struggling functions and mechanics of mortal flesh trying to survive. The wind of breath, the pulse of liquid flowing blood in throbbing temples, the rasp of a gurgling cough, the hollow gulp of a forced swallow. All sounds of his life functioning were loud in his head.

There were distant sounds, too. Murmuring voices, the raking of metal against wood, and a grinding echo of wheels rolling through sand. Over all of the sounds a dominant ambient and endless sob gasped and moaned in the pattern of waves crashing against a hopeless shore.

The second thing noticed was pain.

Every muscle raged with it and when his body willed him to shift, even slightly, it was punished with a chorus of pain that shot through his entire being.

The pain increased the sounds of the sobbing until, slowly, by observing the connection, he realized that the sobbing was his own. This realization caused the sob to turn to a wail. The wailing increased the movement of his heaving chest and therefore increased the pain until, at some point, the process of being conscious became a crescendo of pain and noise that overwhelmed his body and mind until he lost consciousness again…and again. This cycle of consciousness and unconsciousness went on for an unidentifiable amount of time, where he would awake and pass out into a blackened state that neither felt like, nor gave, the comfort of sleep.

At first this was all he experienced, but as time went on he became aware enough when he was conscious to know that he was not alone.

In the layers of sound he began to notice a voice that was consistently present. A deep and growling voice that used words he recognized but did not have the energy to try to understand. Later, he became aware of smells, the pungent smell of his own urine, the stale stench of unwashed straw, his sweat, and the musk of different beasts of burden. He could feel that whatever he laid on was moving. He sensed the rocking of a wagon, heard the rhythmic rumble of wheels on dirt and the clopping of hooves upon the ground.

He could also sense whoever it was that spoke to him in the growling voice. He noticed that at times the air near him was warmer as if another person sat by his side. Not capable of doing anything, he chose to listen to the sound of the voice, and assumed that whomever it belonged to meant him no harm. Surely they would have already harmed him while he lay there incapable of movement. In his current state of no physical comfort that singular thought brought him a sliver of hope, allowing him to fall into unconsciousness with a fragment of peace.

Eventually the moments of consciousness pulled him out of the haze and he was better able to understand bits and pieces of what happened around him. He would awake to the sound of chains dragging on wood. Recognized when a pain in his arm was due to the fact that it had been pulled into a different position by a force that was not his own. He would feel a strong hand holding his chin and smell an unidentifiable food. Corn? Oats? Salted meat? Water? The smell would pass in front of him and a warm soft gruel would pour into his mouth.

He became aware that he had no tongue, or at least not a complete tongue. What he did have was stunted far in the back of his throat. The food’s taste was muted and he struggled to control it when it passed through his mouth. The gruel burned against wounds in the back of his throat, but his body recognized the need for nourishment. His stomach spasmed in hunger as his throat convulsed in desperate, swallowing gulps.

Again, this stage went on for what seemed an endless rhythm of changing time until his strength increased enough for him to try to open his eyes, the lids pulling against a dry crust that had glued them closed.

A blurring image of straw, wooden and iron walls, and chains came in and out of his vision, always masked by a dusty haze and a shallow darkness. Until, one day, he awoke when the rays of the sun filtered through cracks in the planks above him. His eyes strained against the light, but he forced himself to keep them open while he tried to focus and orientate himself to his surroundings.

He determined that he was lying on his back. His left side was propped up a bit more than the right, by what felt like the scratch of straw and sawdust against his itching skin, so that he was ever so slightly tilted at a right angle. His right arm lay heavy against the floor in front of him. His left arm was bent at the elbow and crossed against his naked stomach. The left felt lighter and soon he could see why. His right wrist was locked in a tight metal shackle that was attached to a heavy chain curving away from him on the floor.

He followed the chain with his eyes, slowly, trying to see where it went and found that it raised up through a neighboring hump of straw and ended in another shackle. This shackle was attached to another wrist that was not his own.

He stared at the other wrist for a long time, not wanting to move his head. He saw the hand of another man, a thick and muscled hand, streaked with dirt and sweat. He saw a massive forearm rippled with hard use, the skin a built up layer of scars making it look more like tree bark than human skin. He heard the other breathing and could not tell if this man was sleeping or just laying still.

He lay there, seeing, noticing this other person who was chained to him, this stranger. His mind, more alert than before, remembered images of other bodies lying near him, people who were not strangers. Unlike this stranger, these remembered bodies did not breathe. His memory released a surge of adrenaline that overcame the weakness. A moment of internal panic triggered his heartbeat to speed up, racing painfully in his chest.

He remembered last standing, before the crowd, before the searing blade had taken his tongue. A memory that made his body suddenly and uncontrollably lurch. His mind demanded understanding, Where am I?! A thousand uncontrolled thoughts rushed into his newly awakened brain. Shaking violently he jolted upright only to fall back out of exhaustion and pain.

The neighboring shackled arm moved like lightning next to him, and the owner of that arm sprung in front of him, becoming a silhouette of a massive man that blocked the light and invoked more panic in his already peaking fear.

He reached out to strike at the silhouetted man in front of him, but his weakened arms were caught in the air by thick iron hands and the voice, that growling voice, emanated from the silhouette speaking familiar words low and deep, words his panicking brain tried to understand.

The language, familiar, brought more than understanding, it brought the stab of nostalgia, other memories, memories of horses and cattle in pastures, of his brothers riding horseback through rivers and fields, of warm fires and feasts of lamb and bread, of rich flavored olives and the sound of cicadas filling the air…and laughter…he remembered laughter…he heard laughter.

The silhouette in front of him was laughing, a hushed but powerful, deep laugh. The voice spoke to him in the language of his native tongue, a language he thought was wiped out to extinction in his memory of the horrific fire, the language he thought was silenced when they severed his tongue…and the words…the words…they started to make sense.

The man in front of him continued to laugh and then he proudly whispered, Csoda…you live…that’s right…you live. They told me you would die on me…but I told them you would live. And just as Csoda began to feel himself falling back into the dark delirium, the black unconscious, the deep voice growled, this time not out of pride or a simple statement, but in the tone of an order. Speaking in the language of his father and all of his ancestors the man commanded, Csoda. You will not die on me. You will live.

His head was spinning, the forms blurred in front of him, the pain spiked up his spine and a strong ache of emotion filled his chest. His heart pounding hard, tears streamed down his cheeks and the sobbing and darkness engulfed him even as he remembered his own name. My name is Csoda, and lingering as his mind slipped into unconsciousness again, I will live.

3

The fog hovered and drifted only a few feet above the ground of the vast plains. It moved like the back of a mystical blue serpent, shifted and slid, undulated slowly and curled into itself, exposing scale like shimmers of opalescent dew. Occasionally small patches faded or pulled apart revealing the tall thick grass it quietly coated.

Abelardus sat tall upon the back of his horse as he surveyed the land from the top of a small hill. He could see for miles across the immense barren grassland that was covered in clouds. The fog dulled all sounds and grew thicker every moment. There were no birds in flight, no rustle of a spooked hare, no herds of deer or roaming wolves, no hum of insects. Even the sound of the shifting movements of the proud armored horses and the twenty men that accompanied him were muffled.

In all directions he could only see the rolling flat fog along the ground and above rolling gray clouds filled the sky. The world, it seemed, was a cool pocket of misty air sandwiched between two skies. He and his soldiers seemed to float upon the backs of horse shaped boats, their steed’s legs hidden by the thickening brume.

Abelardus had signaled his men to stop so that he could contemplate his next move across this surreal ocean of fog. Its emptiness frustrated him. There were no clues, for the misty gauze covered any bending blades of grass and the tracks they had followed there were lost to them.

Not a single sign of the pack of rogues they were pursuing. Not a single whisper or horse whinny in the distance. No sign to help him decide which direction to go. He had never seen such a strange fog and he wondered at the cause of it, which God or spirit was protecting the men he followed?

Perhaps he had misjudged the direction to pursue long ago, at the riverbanks or within the forest, and now his mistake had led them far away from their prey. By now those they pursued could be sitting and laughing around a fire in a distant mountain cave. They could be resting, happily content that they had given the Legionnaires the slip, their bellies full with the supplies they had stolen.

The thought of their escape nauseated Abelardus and he privately rethought each decision he had made while tracking them. He reviewed his choices carefully and still swore to himself that he and his men had tracked the vandals effectively. He could not think of one moment along the trail that they could have been fooled. He had been sure that when he and his men entered the open plains they would see the distant fugitives clearly. He had counted on them being exposed in the vast plains, where he could finally keep them in sight.

Now, however, he questioned everything. He even questioned why they had chased them this far to begin with, over a theft of meat and wine. He and his men hovered in this clouded damp landscape, hungry and tired, far from their Legion’s encampment. Their own horses looked lethargic, the hounds paced slowly in exhausted boredom, tongues lolling. It was apparent to Abelardus that this chase had ended. The trail was cold, the weather unfavorable and he did what was rare for him to do, with a heavy shame weighing down his heart, he accepted defeat.

He was about to turn away and order the men to move back in the direction they had come, when he noticed the fog part over what appeared to be a small patch of water down in the fields below. He noted the drying foam of sweat on his own horse’s neck and could see the same on the rest of the steeds. He lifted his hand and pointed out the patch of water to his men, then led his troop down towards the pond. They and the horses would at least have a good drink before they started back on their way home.

The fog barely parted as the animals pushed through it. Occasionally, one of the hound’s heads would poke up out of the haze in front of them as it leapt into the air, trying to see ahead. Otherwise, the earth bound fog covered the movement of everything below the stirrups of the men’s saddles. It thickened around their legs, leaving dew on their boots. All the fields were quiet, the air heavy and still.

At the edge of the pond Abelardus had some of his men dismount and take turns drinking and watering their horses. He heard the hounds splash into the pond and then quiet down shortly after as if they had found a desirable spot to take a quick sleep. He marveled at the quiet. The horses refused to even nicker. He himself felt like he wanted to stay hushed, choosing to signal to his men instead of using speech.

When most of his men were refreshed, Abelardus dismounted and led his horse to the water’s edge to let it drink. He dropped to one knee so that he could scoop the cold water up to his mouth. He took one drink and splashed his face. He noticed that upon kneeling he had dropped his head just below the level of the fog. He was surrounded in clouds, only the flat water in front of him open to view.

Across the water, upon the edge of the pond shore, he saw the hounds lying down, fast asleep, their heads resting in front of what appeared to be a rock. He watched as the fog parted slightly around the rock and there, instead of stone, he saw the slight glint of metal, a flash of hammered brass. There, behind the hounds, lay the head of a horse with an armored bridal.

The sight startled him and briefly he thought the creature was dead until its nostrils barely flared with quiet breaths and upon its side something slowly moved. Abelardus stared in shock at what he realized was a man, laying belly flat against the horse’s side, bow and arrow on his back, knife held in his teeth.

The entire image moved, slow motion, like an unstoppable nightmare. The man locked eyes with Abelardus as he rose up from the edge of the pond yelling to his Legionnaires to mount up, to draw their swords. But before his men could react, before Abelardus could even lift himself back onto his own horse, the still quiet of the fog filled with the rustling of disturbed grass and he saw the clouded landscape undulate, revealing solid shapes of men and horses as they rose up from the ground, surrounding him and his men.

Hundreds of nomads had lain under the fog upon the sides of their quiet, downed horses. They waited, weapons and reins in hand, and in one instant their cleverly trained horses stood, the riders shifting from their prone positions to sitting straight on their backs with uncanny horsemanship. They rose like underwater creatures from the depths and they filled the air with the hiss of arrows and a terrifying unified cry of war that broke into a chaos of whoops and jackal-like howls.

Abelardus remounted, even though his horse reared in fear, but a handful of his men had been pulled down by their attackers under the edge of the fog. Abelardus did not know if they were captured or dead. The loose horses, free from their captured riders, ran into the hands of their ambushers.

Abelardus and his remaining men instinctually banded together. They formed a tight circle, their large shields held to the outside trying to manage some protection, but they were surrounded and outnumbered. The foggy landscape before them bubbled and erupted with more and more armed ambushers.

Their closest attackers swung wide weighted nets over their heads that they threw towards the Legionnaires. The nets parachuted over and around his men pulling them from the backs of their horses. Before he could maneuver out of the way, one of the nets engulfed him, pinning his arms close to his body as he was pulled to the ground. For a moment, right before he fell from the back of his struggling steed, his eyes glanced ahead of him, across the small pond. There Abelardus saw the five men they had pursued to this place–laughing at them.

4

T hat’s right my friend…eat…I can tell by your breathing that you’re getting stronger.

Csoda had been woken by a spasm of swallowing. He opened his eyes halfway to see the large man still chained to him, hurriedly chewing on a strip of tough meat and glancing occasionally towards a slight opening in the ceiling. Rays of light shone down and across the man’s face, creating deep shadows.

For the first time Csoda could actually see this stranger’s features