Read Online The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus by Clive Barker, David Niall Wilson, Richard A. Kirk - Free Book Online Page A
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country, and entertained the court of the Khan called Kublai in Xanadu, how they sought the bearded bird in the measureless caves, and how, at last, Angelo was lost.
Having left the town perched at the World’s Edge far behind them, Mr. Bacchus and his Travelling Circus had crossed the Himalayas, pausing for a day to stand and hear the Yeti sing, and the road to Cathay no longer twisted like a snake on a forked twig, but led, straight as lines on Mr. Bacchus’ palm, to another range of mountains. Iron-grey and foreboding, they rose before the tiny caravan as it rattled along the narrow road, their needlepoints piercing the pale winter sky. To either side of the road the landscape was changing. Through the windows of the caravan misty scenes appeared, one upon another, water-logged rice-fields, with back-clothes of dark trees and mountains; forests of bamboo, masking helmeted warriors on black, snorting horses; smoke-wreathed temples guarded by squatting stone lions with wide jade eyes; and bridges over somber rivulets that bore the last yellow aspen leaves to the salt sea.
The people who passed the caravan on the road moved slowly, as if in a dream, their robes rising behind them in the wind. Once or twice, a troop of soldiers galloped up the road and past the caravan, on towards Xanadu, their mirror-shields glinting in the December light. But nobody attempted to stop the Circus, and Angelo drove Thoth on past the temples and the bridges and the fields, towards the mountains. Gradually, as they left the flat landscape behind them and drove through a pass leading up to the cloud-draped pinnacles, it became colder, and sharp flakes of snow appeared in the wind.
“Well,” commented Malachi, “If this is the kind of weather we can expect in Xanadu, I suggest we turn back.”
“Within Xanadu,” replied Mr. Bacchus, “there is always light and warmth—even though the clouds that hang about the towers forever hide the sun.”
“How’s that possible?” said Hero
“Ah,” said Mr. Bacchus. “The Khan called Kublai is a man of great wisdom. He devised a rocket, which flew up to the sun and broke a piece off. Now they keep the fragment in the palace of Xanadu, to provide eternal day.”
“Rubbish,” cried Malachi. “Credulous rubbish!”
“And why is that, crocodile?” asked Mr. Bacchus, testily.
“Because,” said Malachi with a grimace, “it was proven by the Pharaoh Akenaten that the sun is a golden eye burning in the Heaven, and if anything were to go near it, it would be reduced to smoking ashes within the space of aria.”
“How do you know?” said Ophelia. “Have you been up to the sun?”
“Not personally,” said Malachi, “but my predecessors were exceptionally fond of flying.”
“Flying?” said Domingo. “Were they birds?”
“They were wyrms, sir!” replied Malachi. “Or as the common vernacular has it, dragons! They had fire behind their teeth, and wings like the kite. They could fly to the moon! To the sun! It is murmured in the Nile that one even flew through a hole in the heavens, where he grew exceptionally thin.”
“But your wings. Where are they now?” asked Hero.
“We lost them,” said Malachi. “One of my forefathers flew too close to the sun and they caught fire. Down he fell into the sea, and boiled it to a salt desert. Thereafter, wings were forbidden.” He paused, with a look of deadly seriousness on his long face, and then continued. “So you see, I do know how hot the eye of the sun is, and nobody could break off a piece.”
“That is what I heard, crocodile,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “And I believe stranger things.”
“That’s half of your trouble,” muttered the crocodile. “You believe everything’s true.”
“That’s because everything is,” replied Mr. Bacchus, grinning from ear to ear.
There was a brief silence while Malachi pondered whether Bacchus was joking or not, and in that moment the company heard the sound of hooves on the road
Having left the town perched at the World’s Edge far behind them, Mr. Bacchus and his Travelling Circus had crossed the Himalayas, pausing for a day to stand and hear the Yeti sing, and the road to Cathay no longer twisted like a snake on a forked twig, but led, straight as lines on Mr. Bacchus’ palm, to another range of mountains. Iron-grey and foreboding, they rose before the tiny caravan as it rattled along the narrow road, their needlepoints piercing the pale winter sky. To either side of the road the landscape was changing. Through the windows of the caravan misty scenes appeared, one upon another, water-logged rice-fields, with back-clothes of dark trees and mountains; forests of bamboo, masking helmeted warriors on black, snorting horses; smoke-wreathed temples guarded by squatting stone lions with wide jade eyes; and bridges over somber rivulets that bore the last yellow aspen leaves to the salt sea.
The people who passed the caravan on the road moved slowly, as if in a dream, their robes rising behind them in the wind. Once or twice, a troop of soldiers galloped up the road and past the caravan, on towards Xanadu, their mirror-shields glinting in the December light. But nobody attempted to stop the Circus, and Angelo drove Thoth on past the temples and the bridges and the fields, towards the mountains. Gradually, as they left the flat landscape behind them and drove through a pass leading up to the cloud-draped pinnacles, it became colder, and sharp flakes of snow appeared in the wind.
“Well,” commented Malachi, “If this is the kind of weather we can expect in Xanadu, I suggest we turn back.”
“Within Xanadu,” replied Mr. Bacchus, “there is always light and warmth—even though the clouds that hang about the towers forever hide the sun.”
“How’s that possible?” said Hero
“Ah,” said Mr. Bacchus. “The Khan called Kublai is a man of great wisdom. He devised a rocket, which flew up to the sun and broke a piece off. Now they keep the fragment in the palace of Xanadu, to provide eternal day.”
“Rubbish,” cried Malachi. “Credulous rubbish!”
“And why is that, crocodile?” asked Mr. Bacchus, testily.
“Because,” said Malachi with a grimace, “it was proven by the Pharaoh Akenaten that the sun is a golden eye burning in the Heaven, and if anything were to go near it, it would be reduced to smoking ashes within the space of aria.”
“How do you know?” said Ophelia. “Have you been up to the sun?”
“Not personally,” said Malachi, “but my predecessors were exceptionally fond of flying.”
“Flying?” said Domingo. “Were they birds?”
“They were wyrms, sir!” replied Malachi. “Or as the common vernacular has it, dragons! They had fire behind their teeth, and wings like the kite. They could fly to the moon! To the sun! It is murmured in the Nile that one even flew through a hole in the heavens, where he grew exceptionally thin.”
“But your wings. Where are they now?” asked Hero.
“We lost them,” said Malachi. “One of my forefathers flew too close to the sun and they caught fire. Down he fell into the sea, and boiled it to a salt desert. Thereafter, wings were forbidden.” He paused, with a look of deadly seriousness on his long face, and then continued. “So you see, I do know how hot the eye of the sun is, and nobody could break off a piece.”
“That is what I heard, crocodile,” replied Mr. Bacchus. “And I believe stranger things.”
“That’s half of your trouble,” muttered the crocodile. “You believe everything’s true.”
“That’s because everything is,” replied Mr. Bacchus, grinning from ear to ear.
There was a brief silence while Malachi pondered whether Bacchus was joking or not, and in that moment the company heard the sound of hooves on the road
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