Ned’s Circus of Marvels. Justin Fisher
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eyes was enough to chill Ned’s bones. The Darklings were nightmares come to life, only worse, only real. Ned didn’t care whether he was going mad or not. He was quite beyond that now.
BANG.
An unmarked grey truck backfired beside them. Its rear doors were flung open and out stepped a tracker. He wore a long wax coat to match his long greasy hair and his wild eyes looked entirely feral.
“Lerft! Roight! Heel!” he called in a strong Irish accent.
Ned watched in awe as the tracker’s pet lions, Left and Right, bounded out of the truck and fawned over him like obedient puppies. It wasn’t so much that he had a power over them, it looked more like he was one of them, a creature of the wild too.
“Aark!” he called next, in a voice only part human.
From somewhere high in the air came a screech and a swoosh of wings as a large black hawk flew down to the man’s arm. A large black hawk … with two heads.
It was at this point that Ned lost the power of speech altogether.
Circus hands lowered a covered cage from out of the back of Finn’s truck, while two men in matching pinstripe suits interviewed the German tourist who’d been unlucky enough to stumble upon whatever it was the tracker had captured.
“Oh dear, Mr Smalls,” said one of the suits.
“Yes, quite, Mr Cook,” agreed the other.
The tourist was babbling and in severe shock.
“You see, one moment it was there unt the next, nosink. No beast unt only the forest. You believe me, ja?” pleaded the tourist.
“Yes, sir, actually we do rather. Mr Cook, if you wouldn’t mind doing the honours?”
The taller of the two pulled a long silver tube from his breast pocket that looked a little like a flute, only it wasn’t. He pointed it at the tourist’s face and blew. The two men then dragged the now sleeping backpacker to Kitty’s bus.
“You see,” Benissimo rumbled, his great eyebrows furrowed, “when the two worlds come crashing together, yours and mine that is, it’s the Circus of Marvels and others like her that have to clear up the mess. When things go awry and the shadows bite, it’s my troupe that bites them back. Whether you’ve the teeth for it, pup, remains to be seen.”
Ned felt his anger rise up again. Benissimo kept talking to him as though he’d somehow agreed to join their band of travelling monstrosities while in the same breath reminding him that he was not up to the task. And he still hadn’t explained how he and his dad were part of all this! He was about to tell his host exactly what he thought of him when there was an almighty howl from inside the truck’s cage. As the beast within threw itself at its bars, the cover slipped and fell. In place of the monster Ned was expecting, was a thin, shaking man, clammy with sweat. The man looked at Ned, cocked his head to one side and started to whimper. But despite the timid sound, he watched Ned with the same look of interest a dog gives a cat, before trying to tear its head off.
Benissimo’s whip snapped at the cage bars, seemingly without the Ringmaster moving.
“Any more of that and I’ll order our boy Finn here to give you a bath with his lions,” he warned.
The man cowered at the Ringmaster’s glare and the cage was covered up again. Ned was shocked by Benissimo’s ferocity. Could they really treat a person like that? Weren’t there rules and laws for that kind of thing?
“Don’t be fooled by its human form. That’s the level fifteen our pinstripes called us in for. Thankfully the threat of soap is usually enough to calm them before it comes to blows. Ours is a dangerous path, boy, and requires a firm hand to keep it straight.”
Ned looked at the man in front of him as he strode on once more, a towering mast in a sea of monsters. One thing seemed certain – the Ringmaster would do anything to keep the shadows, as he’d called them, at bay.
As they passed the big top, the troupe were now going through rigorous training. Though not entirely of the traditional circus kind. Grandpa Tortellini and his seven grandchildren were up on the high-wire, which of course made Ned’s stomach churn. At one end of the arena, another group of men and women were scaling a wall in what looked like blindfolds, which was when Ned realised that those in the air also had their eyes completely covered.
Directly in front of them, Monsieur Couteau – the master swordsman – was drilling several troupe members in armed combat using charmed axes, silver swords and even flame-tipped spears. As Ned watched he demonstrated the effectiveness of what he called runes, by throwing a small square of engraved stone at a wooden dummy. A moment later the dummy had turned to a pile of ash. A small group of them, moving together like a well-oiled machine, were children even younger than Ned. It was abundantly clear that safely trapping beasts was not always an option.
“How … how old is she?” Ned stammered, pointing to one of the smallest.
“Daisy is a smidge over seven. We get them going as early as possible. Without proper training, one’s life expectancy around here is practically nil. You, pup, are quite woefully in that category, and if you’re to stay safe or be of any use, you’ll have to get in there and test your own metal soon enough.”
Ned knew screwdrivers not swords and wasn’t sure he had any “metal” to be tested.
“This isn’t a circus, it’s … it’s an army,” said Ned.
For a moment, the rock-hard swagger slipped from Benissimo’s face, and was replaced with the same tinge of disappointment he’d seen in the Ringmaster’s eyes on Kitty’s bus.
“You need an army to fight a war, boy. Even the ones you have no hope of winning.”
Ned’s head was spinning when at last they stopped by one of the circus’s larger vehicles. Benissimo punched numbers into a keypad and its door slid open.
“I’m going to have our head of R&D – research and development – cast an eye over your box. If my nose is right, you’ll need to make a choice. Now, pup, the Tinker is a minutian. Minutians can make most anything from anything, but they’re sensitive about their size. DO NOT, by all that is holy, say the word ‘gnome’ in his presence. There are gadgets in there that could blow up half of Europe if you make him angry.”
From the expression on Benissimo’s face, it was quite clear that he was not joking.
Inside the lorry, machines whirred and spun, bottles bubbled with strange liquids and every available surface was covered in notes, diagrams and mechanical contraptions. It made Ned’s eyes water. His dad would have loved it; every gadget, every blueprint, every complex contraption. This was the kind of place that Terry Waddlesworth would have lost himself in for weeks. And when Ned was younger, he would have sat there with him, copying every move with a wrench or screwdriver. A part of Ned that he had forgotten was still there suddenly longed for his old hobby, and his dad, and the way things had been before.
“Wow!” he breathed. “Look at all this gear! You really could make anything in here!”
Ned ran his hand along the nearest machine, a hydraulic press, marvelling at its unique design. Ned noticed that the Ringmaster seemed to be eyeing him curiously.
“Ahem, no touching the equipment, thank you,” said a voice.
At the room’s centre was a table where