The Rise of the Clowns

Chapter 2

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 now 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 was still 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.”