Carnival of Night

One

The carnival came in the night and no one knew about it before it was too late.

Marie was the first to notice their arrival in the strange grey half-light before dawn. She awoke from a night of wild and troubled dreams, her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She slipped from beneath the covers and quietly made her way to the front room of the house, her bare feet chill against the rough stone floor.

The house was cold. It was impossible to retain any kind of warmth within its walls. Her breath visible in the air as she looked out of the window. Dawn was close; to the east there was a dull metal glow in the air signalling its approach, but the night hung on tight. In the field hard by their cottage, sheep lay as silent still clouds. Her eyes followed the line of the dry-stone wall marking the limits of their property, and it was then that she noticed that everything had changed in the night.

Down in the hollow of the hill, in the large field running alongside the river, a number of covered wagons were drawn up into a broad circle. She could see figures, deeper shadows against the dark, moving back and forth between them. At first, she doubted the evidence of her own eyes. The village was far too small to attract any kind of entertainment. The last time she had seen a circus was when she had travelled the eight miles to York, nearly twenty years before, with her sister. She remembered her parent's reaction on their return. At the time she had thought it excessive. This was before her marriage to William, when she still strained at the confines of the village.

It was still difficult to remember the wonders she had seen that day without feeling a little sad, although she quickly chastised herself for her ingratitude. The life she had now was good enough. William was kind and honest, a good worker. She could have done worse. She had a lot to be thankful for.

She felt strange as she watched those distant dark figures get to work. A fire leapt up suddenly, bright enough to illuminate the circle of figures around it. They all had long dark hair, men as well as women. The leaping fire cast long dancing shadows on the ground, stretching out the dancer's arms and grasping hands. Voices carried on the still night air and she heard faint singing, mournful and low. She felt an ache in her chest just listening to it. She started as a long mournful cry rose into the air. Standing there, barefoot, and still in her nightshift, she shivered.

She stayed at the window until the grey sky gradually warmed to a burnt orange as the night finally released its grasp, slipping away. Her husband, William, barely noticed his wife as he left the house. He would return later for his breakfast after he had seen to the animals. When her daughter, eighteen years of age and rubbing sleep from her eyes, crept downstairs nearly half an hour later, she discovered her mother still standing by the window, listening intently, a strange distant look in her pale blue eyes.

The news of the carnival's arrival quickly spread throughout the village. Gossip and speculation was rife. Marie spent the morning cleaning the house. She was always aware of the raised tents visible through the window although she was careful not to look. She was adamant she would not be distracted. She spoke briefly to Edith, her garrulous next-door neighbour, but had quickly retreated back indoors, beaten into submission by the woman's speculations. The carnival workers were obviously escaped criminals, Edith claimed, roaming the countryside looking for victims.

"You mark my words," Edith said, while she stood idly on her front porch as if she had no home to keep, "we'll wake up tomorrow to find everything not nailed down in the back of their wagons on their way to Wales." Marie smiled, nodded silently, then shut the door.

She was curious about the new arrivals, of course, the days blurred together in a smear of grey, so any sudden flash of colour was bound to tug at your attention, but there was no point in idling the day away in silly speculation. People would go to the show, she had no doubt, and the next day they would wake up to the same life only with less pennies in their pocket. Her mother had always said, "a fool and their money are soon parted." Marie hadn't listened at the time, of course, but she saw now it was a simple statement of fact.

In the afternoon she had reason to visit the local shop. This was the first time she noticed the posters pasted to the village hall advertising the showing, for one night only, for free. She stopped at that. Nothing was free. Anyone claiming otherwise was selling something. But there it was, in lurid print across a picture of various wild jungle animals: "WELCOME TO THE CARNIVAL OF NIGHT! EXPERIENCE MAGIC, WONDERS AND MYSTERIES. NO PURCHASE NECESSARY. ENTRANCE FREE."

She snorted as she looked at it. Above the words a whole bestiary of beasts clawed out through the paper to get at her. A dark panther tore through printed words with claws sharpened to gleaming points. There was a leopard, a snake and, at the edge of the picture, a lone wolf stared out. Above them the grinning face of a man loomed. It certainly made an impression, she had to admit. There would be people fooled by it, of that, she was sure.

Returning home, she spotted her daughter, Alice, standing by the front gate. She was talking over the gate with a man Marie did not immediately recognise. The knot in her stomach twisted when she saw the way her daughter's face darkened at her approach: She had been caught out. Before she reached the couple the man put on a ridiculously tall hat and, with rather a theatrical tap to its top with his long fingers, turned and strode away down the hill. Any doubts Marie had about the man's identity resolved themselves when she saw that hat: too showy, too grand. Too, there was only one word for it, theatrical. She was sure that man owned the same countenance that she had seen leering out from the circus advertisement.

By the time Marie reached the gate her daughter was busy with the washing, showing an industry that did not fool Marie for a second.

"What was it he wanted?" she asked.

Her daughter answered without meeting her gaze. "Wanted?"

Marie felt her irritation rise. "The man, the travelling man from the circus. I saw him talking to you. What was it that he wanted?"

Alice hesitated before answering. Then, straightening and throwing her long blonde hair away from her face, she met her mother's gaze.

"He was inviting me to the show tonight. It's free, they need to practise. And everyone's going, he said so." This last was said after Alice noticed her mother's expression harden.

"There's nothing free in this world, Alice, you should know better than that," said Marie. "They just want to get you all under the cover of that there tent and then, you mark my words, then they'll come for your purse, or rather mine and your father's."

"But mum," her daughter replied, her plaintive voice regressing so that she no longer sounded like the full-grown woman she was. "They never come here, not normally; this will be our only chance. You and dad never let us go into town. He seemed really nice. Beverley's said she's goings".

There was an edge to how she said this last part, and Marie recognised the colouring of her daughter's cheeks. So, that was what it was, she told herself, and any lasting doubts were immediately dispelled.

"I've no doubt Beverley will do as she pleases," Marie said. "You shouldn't be friends with that girl anyhow. you'll not be going tonight; I don't care if the whole village takes leave of its senses. It's an early start tomorrow, you know it. I don't want to hear any more about it. I mean it!" Even as she said it, she recognised her own mother's tone beneath her own, a realisation that only increased her irritation.

But she knew her daughter well enough, they were too much alike, deep down. Alice had recently taken to reminding Marie that, at eighteen, she was now the same age Marie had been when Alice had been born. A foolish strategy as it merely strengthened Marie's resolve for her daughter not to make the same mistakes.

She suspected that Alice was no more likely to keep to her room tonight than she would have been at her age. She had heard enough stories of families losing sons and daughters to travelling folk, and Alice had just a little too much of the dreamer about her. It would change, given time, but until then Marie would have to make sure. She knew exactly what she needed to do.

She had expected the circus camp to be a hive of activity and yet, as she walked down to it early in the afternoon, there didn't seem to be anyone around. Most of the preparation appeared to have been completed in the night. She had watched them raise the large red canopy of the tent before dawn, numerous figures working hard on the ropes to pull the structure up to the sky. As she walked out onto the field, Marie could not see anyone moving between the wagons and carriages. No doubt they were all in the village, beguiling the gullible. They would find fools enough; she had no doubt.

The wind breathed softly through the scattered wagons and the red canvas tent stirred restlessly. She became aware for the first time that there was, after all, signs of life in the camp. A number of the wagons consisted of large metal cages, partially covered by tarpaulins. Shadows and shapes moved inside them and, unable to resist her curiosity, she took a step closer to the nearest cage.

Her lips parted in wonder as she saw the long ebony shape of a panther stretched out upon straw. She had never seen one before, only pictures. It was magnificent, the sleek fur gleaming in the dull grey light like moonlit water, the powerful muscles flexed and moved as the animal shifted restlessly in its sleep. She circled the cage, drinking in the sight of the animal from all angles before she noticed another panther, somewhat smaller, though just as dark, tucked up tight against the larger cat. The two animals dozed and, when Marie listened intently, she could hear the quiet whisper of their breathing.

"Can I help you?" The voice sounded close, making her start. The panther made a grumbling sound but did not open its eyes. Turning, Marie saw that it was the same man she had seen earlier, ludicrous hat and all. He was smiling as he addressed her, but she was keenly aware that the smile did not stretch to his eyes, which studied her with a cool calculating gaze. Marie had the uncomfortable feeling of being measured. She gathered her nerves, annoyed at herself for her reaction.

"Are you in charge here?" she asked, meeting his gaze.

"Oh, now I wouldn't say that" he said, the smile broadening a little. "I'm the one who arranges things. Organises things. Makes sure everything's flows just so. But I can't say as how I'm in charge. But I might do for now. My name is Emile, and I am the Master of Ceremonies for this little outfit. What can I do you for?"

"I'd like to speak to the person in charge," she said, refusing to be charmed.

"Well," he replied, his manner perfectly amiable, "If there is a person in charge, I'm afraid he isn't available. But, like I said, maybe I can help if you decide to risk it."

"I saw you earlier today," she said. "You were talking to my daughter. I live in that house there." She gestured over her shoulder, away from the cages, to where her house lay dark and quiet behind her.

"Well now, I've talked to quite a few folks today. Drumming up trade, so to speak. You'll have to forgive me."

"You invited her to the show tonight. You said it would be free."

"Now that sounds about right. I've invited everyone to the show tonight, the more the merrier. And it is indeed free." He spread out his hands, a humble gesture she didn't buy for a second. "We're treating it as a work in progress. Try it out on a crowd. See what works, see what doesn't. We want it as good as it can get before, we make it to the city where people are a little more relaxed about their wallets, no offence. And it's not just your daughter who's invited, there's places for all. You and your husband can come if you fancy it. I guarantee you'll have seen nothing like."

"I don't want her to come."

He again spread out his hands, this time in a gesture of helplessness.

"What do you want from me? We offer wonders, you seek to deny people. You ask us to turn people away from the most memorable night of their lives. How can you imagine us so cruel?"

They had walked a little further into the camp. To the left, the big scarlet temple creaked and shifted, pulling at the ropes holding it down. They drew near another metal cage set on a huge wagon bed, partially covered by a crimson tarpaulin. The interior was laid with earth and straw. Marie stopped, and Emile carried on walking until he realised, he was talking to himself.

It was the smell that had stopped her, the smell of freshly turned earth and straw, mixed with another scent: An animal smell, familiar and yet she could not place it.

In the darkness of the cage, the shadows shifted and took the shape of a large grey wolf. Marie actually gasped as it padded its way out into the light. It was huge and immediately intimidating. Its grey and white fur caught the light as powerful muscles bulged beneath the surface. Its eyes were light blue, almost grey, as it studied the woman before it. Marie could not take her eyes of it. It wasn't beautiful, not in the sleek, feline manner of the panthers, but there was a power to it.

Emile turned, realising he had lost his audience, and, for a moment, it seemed he was lost for words. When the wolf took a few more padding steps towards the cage bars, he let out a long breath. Now this was unexpected. Whoever this woman was, she had made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with the show. He had been disappointed; she was, after all, quite as beautiful as her daughter. More so, in fact. He found that he wanted to see her smile. He was trying to change her mind, but this had been out of a salesman's force of habit rather than any real hope. He recognised strength and stubbornness when he saw it. There would be no persuading her. That was why he was surprised when the woman took a step towards the wolf cage and, he couldn't believe it, raised her hand, pushing it between the bars. Was she mad?

"Miss, I wouldn't," he said. "This ain't a petting zoo, and even if it were that's the last one you should be...". He got no further, stunned into silence as the animal, taking a step further, pressed its large head into the woman's outstretched hand. It lasted only a second, before the wolf turned and retreated back into the shade. Marie's hand remained where it was, a distant look on her face. It was only when he cleared his throat that she retracted her arm.

Finally, his voice returned to him. "You're good with animals, I can see that. Silas doesn't warm to anyone, hasn't for years."

"Why is he in a cage?" There was anger in her voice.

"You can't be letting dangerous animals lose in the countryside. People won't like it. There's a reason there's no wild wolves left. Folk prefer their walks in the countryside without the risk of becoming dinner."

"It's not right." The anger now replaced by sadness.

"I don't make the rules," he said, taking her arm and drawing her away. She came reluctantly, her gaze lingering on the shadowed interior of the cage.

"But listen here," he said, putting her arm under his as they walked. "How about we do a deal, you and me: I promise I'll turn your daughter away if she comes, shame though that would be, but you come in her stead."

"I don't waste my time with circuses," she said, the fire returning. "We can't be doing with such a waste of time. It's sinful. It's bad enough you cage all these beautiful animals. I won't be part of watching them perform."

"Aah, but that's just it. We don't use the animals in our show. We're just transporting them. We don't get animals to do anything they don't want to, it's not that type of show". He took a step towards her, his expression suddenly serious. "Come and have a taste, why don't you? A taste of the wild ways. There's time enough for respectability when we leave. Tell me, when was the last time you felt wonder, real wonder? When was the last time you saw the world through wild eyes? Have you ever? I think you have! That's what we offer? For one night only, and for free. Come along and sneak a peek at what you've been missing. You won't regret it."

She could not remember the last time she and her husband had gone out for the evening. Was it at harvest time? Even then, they had taken their daughter. When was the last time they had gone out on their own? She was being fooled; she knew this. If she said yes, she would simply add her name to the list of the gullible.

Her hand still felt warm from the animal's breath. She curled her fingers over her palm, as if to stop the heat from escaping.

Two

She told her husband about the circus and her agreement with Emile. She had thought he would come, if only to prevent her going alone, but his enthusiasm took her by surprise. Even he, it seemed, was not immune to such nonsense.

and yet, as the day went on, she found that she too was beginning to look forward to the evening. She took her time getting dressed: a green stay over a white shift, the rigid fabric, laced at the front and back, showed off her figure in a way that still pleased her, even if her husband did not seem to notice.

"You are beautiful, mama," her daughter said, lacing up her back. Her eyes were still red from crying, she had not taken the news of her replacement well, although the storm seemed to be passing. Marie smiled at her daughter through the mirror. A pale pink petticoat completed the look. When she began to put on her white cap, her daughter objected.

"You should wear your hair down," she said. "You have such lovely hair. Let the people see it.

Marie frowned. "Unlike you, I don't feel the need to have folks looking and talking." But she winked at her daughter to show she wasn't entirely serious. The truth was she was excited to be going. She felt a rising sense of juvenile anticipation at the thought of the coming show. She had to remind herself of her motive in going, to protect her daughter. Her long red hair was tied up and the white linen cap was securely pinned down.

Leaving the house in the late afternoon, Marie linked arms with her husband as they made their way to the field. Her husband had said nothing to her, limiting his speech to polite greetings to others, as they joined the column of people converging on the tent.

She was surprised at how roomy the tent was on the inside; the lack of a central pole meant that there was a cavernous feel to the interior that was a little disconcerting. What precisely, she wondered, was holding the tent up? A number of low wooden benches were placed around the edge, leaving a wide rectangular performance space in the middle. The light was provided by four tall torches placed at the corners of the stage; the ground covered with sand. The benches were made of rough wood and were a little too low to be comfortable, but all the villagers quickly took their seats. Marie held her husband's hand while they waited.

She was surprised, and a little disappointed, to see how many people had come. She counted almost thirty of the village's finest, all huddled on their benches. She certainly would have expected more from the vicar and his wife, and yet there they were, taking their place along with the others. Beverley was there and Marie noted ruefully that her suspicions had been correct. There was no sign of the young woman's parents; that was one girl who needed the firm hand her parents seemed unwilling or unable to provide. The girl was dressed prettily enough in her Sunday best, her blonde curls (the subject of envy, Marie knew, for her daughter) falling loose around her shoulders. Shameful!