Read Online The Grin of the Dark by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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of them with wide eyes
and stretched mouths. It's a totem pole, another local landmark that
looks transplanted from elsewhere. We're close to the end of the path
when the lowest face detaches itself and rises to meet us. It belongs to
a clown who was seated on a folding chair. I've scarcely brandished
the tickets when the clown shakes its floppy hands to indicate an
avenue that leads into the dark.
Bare oaks mime praying overhead. Their branches look imprinted
on the black sky. Wouldn't it have made sense to provide some light?
Before long the path angles sharp left, and Mark might have run into
a hulking trunk if a clown hadn't sprung out from behind it to direct
us. The figure prances in and out of the trees beside us, wagging its
glimmering head and flapping its hands so wildly that they seem
boneless. Perhaps the performer needs to reach the tent in the field at
the end of the path.
When we run out of the avenue the white tent appears to shrink as
if a camera is zooming back. It's the change of perspective. The tent,
which has been erected in the middle of the green, isn't quite symmetrical;
the canvas pyramid is inclined slightly leftward, giving it a
rakish or rickety air. As we cross the field I seem to glimpse a dim
leggy shadow that suggests its owner is catching us up, but there's no
sign of our guide.
The tent is encircled by glistening footprints, perhaps of customers
like us in search of the entrance. A midget clown leans against a taut
guy-rope beside the open flap in the canvas. When I hold out the
tickets the puffy white hands wave us through. The mocking tragic
mask is painted on so thickly that I'm unable to judge whether the
diminutive figure is a dwarf or a child. I hurry after Mark into the
tent, and the audience turns to watch us.
They're in families scattered around tiers of five benches indistinguishable
from steps. They aren't merely watching, they're laughing
at us, which strikes me as excessive even if we're late. Mark glances
uncertainly at me, but as his gaze slips past me his mouth widens with
a grin. An assortment of clowns of various sizes is pacing flat-footed
yet silently behind us.
Mark scrambles to join the audience, which doesn't include
Natalie. As I sit next to him on the middle bench, someone higher up
the tier comments 'Maybe they thought it wasn't on yet.'
'We didn't think it was till after Christmas,' their companion
murmurs.
'It shouldn't be till the New Year,' says the first voice or another.
The last clown has entered the ring and is staring at me as if I
spoke. When I hold up my hands as a vow of silence I feel as if I'm
mimicking a clownish gesture. He, if it's a man, copies this so vigorously
that he might be pretending to surrender, and then he scuttles
splay-legged to take his place in the circle his colleagues have formed
within the ring. There are thirteen of them. Two are less than five feet
tall, and two stilted figures are over eight feet each as though to
compensate. I wish I'd seen that pair duck through the entrance,
which is scant inches higher than my head. Four of the clowns seem
familiar, which I take to mean that we were followed by all those we
encountered. They're certainly capable of making no noise. The circle
is facing the audience in absolute silence.
For long enough that some of the children begin to grow restless,
the clowns are as motionless as a film still, and then they start to
shuffle crabwise around the ring. Their unblinking gaze trails over the
audience. Even the stilted figures on opposite sides of the ring manage
to keep in step. Spotlights at the foot of the benches project a
distorted shadow play on the canvas above the seats. The routine
looks more like an obscure ritual than a circus act until a little girl
laughs tentatively. The parade comes to an instant halt as the clown
who's gazing straight at her falls over backwards.
From the solid bulge of his crotch it's reasonable to assume he's a
man. Despite this distraction, he doesn't
and stretched mouths. It's a totem pole, another local landmark that
looks transplanted from elsewhere. We're close to the end of the path
when the lowest face detaches itself and rises to meet us. It belongs to
a clown who was seated on a folding chair. I've scarcely brandished
the tickets when the clown shakes its floppy hands to indicate an
avenue that leads into the dark.
Bare oaks mime praying overhead. Their branches look imprinted
on the black sky. Wouldn't it have made sense to provide some light?
Before long the path angles sharp left, and Mark might have run into
a hulking trunk if a clown hadn't sprung out from behind it to direct
us. The figure prances in and out of the trees beside us, wagging its
glimmering head and flapping its hands so wildly that they seem
boneless. Perhaps the performer needs to reach the tent in the field at
the end of the path.
When we run out of the avenue the white tent appears to shrink as
if a camera is zooming back. It's the change of perspective. The tent,
which has been erected in the middle of the green, isn't quite symmetrical;
the canvas pyramid is inclined slightly leftward, giving it a
rakish or rickety air. As we cross the field I seem to glimpse a dim
leggy shadow that suggests its owner is catching us up, but there's no
sign of our guide.
The tent is encircled by glistening footprints, perhaps of customers
like us in search of the entrance. A midget clown leans against a taut
guy-rope beside the open flap in the canvas. When I hold out the
tickets the puffy white hands wave us through. The mocking tragic
mask is painted on so thickly that I'm unable to judge whether the
diminutive figure is a dwarf or a child. I hurry after Mark into the
tent, and the audience turns to watch us.
They're in families scattered around tiers of five benches indistinguishable
from steps. They aren't merely watching, they're laughing
at us, which strikes me as excessive even if we're late. Mark glances
uncertainly at me, but as his gaze slips past me his mouth widens with
a grin. An assortment of clowns of various sizes is pacing flat-footed
yet silently behind us.
Mark scrambles to join the audience, which doesn't include
Natalie. As I sit next to him on the middle bench, someone higher up
the tier comments 'Maybe they thought it wasn't on yet.'
'We didn't think it was till after Christmas,' their companion
murmurs.
'It shouldn't be till the New Year,' says the first voice or another.
The last clown has entered the ring and is staring at me as if I
spoke. When I hold up my hands as a vow of silence I feel as if I'm
mimicking a clownish gesture. He, if it's a man, copies this so vigorously
that he might be pretending to surrender, and then he scuttles
splay-legged to take his place in the circle his colleagues have formed
within the ring. There are thirteen of them. Two are less than five feet
tall, and two stilted figures are over eight feet each as though to
compensate. I wish I'd seen that pair duck through the entrance,
which is scant inches higher than my head. Four of the clowns seem
familiar, which I take to mean that we were followed by all those we
encountered. They're certainly capable of making no noise. The circle
is facing the audience in absolute silence.
For long enough that some of the children begin to grow restless,
the clowns are as motionless as a film still, and then they start to
shuffle crabwise around the ring. Their unblinking gaze trails over the
audience. Even the stilted figures on opposite sides of the ring manage
to keep in step. Spotlights at the foot of the benches project a
distorted shadow play on the canvas above the seats. The routine
looks more like an obscure ritual than a circus act until a little girl
laughs tentatively. The parade comes to an instant halt as the clown
who's gazing straight at her falls over backwards.
From the solid bulge of his crotch it's reasonable to assume he's a
man. Despite this distraction, he doesn't
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