The Rise of the Clowns

Chapter 4

4

“That’s right my friend… eat…I can tell by your breathing that you’re getting stronger.”

Csoda had been woken by a spasm of swallowing. He opened his eyes halfway to see the large man still chained to him, hurriedly chewing on a strip of tough meat and glancing occasionally towards a slight opening in the ceiling. Rays of light shone down and across the man’s face, creating deep shadows.

For the first time Csoda could actually see this stranger’s features and they were well matched to his robust body. His strong bearded chin tapered down from a broad cut jaw, his lips were full and clearly defined his mouth, even through unkempt facial hair. His substantial hooked nose, mimicking the shape of his chin, was both wide and long. His beard and eyebrows were full and thick and his long black hair was pulled back and tied haphazardly into a knotted braid behind his head.

Csoda did not feel fear this time, just an apathetic weakness, his only current strength fed by a slight curiosity. The man spoke his language and his general appearance, though different than Csoda’s, was familiar.

The man continued to talk even as he chewed on a piece of meat. He did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular. His conversation changed its focus constantly so that sometimes he seemed to talk to himself, then to Csoda, and then to someone outside of their wagon prison. The man’s voice shifted as well and its robust sound was surprisingly varied. Sometimes it was a tenor growl and other times it lilted at higher pitches, especially when he seemed to be mocking something.

“Yes…” the man went on, “We both need our strength. We have time. They want us alive…but…it is up to us to be strong.” A shadow passed outside the wagon. The man watched suspiciously, narrowing his intense dark eyes, he spoke under his breath, “Look at you…dirty guard…you think I am caged….huh? You…you in your little costume given to you by your master.” He chuckled to himself then turned his attention back to the half eaten piece of meat. He swallowed what was in his mouth and violently tore off a new piece.

The man stopped speaking, his focus now shifted to the food. He stared into space chewing and chewing, until the food was completely turned to liquid in his mouth. He cupped his hand, spitting the masticated food into his palm and turned towards Csoda. Their eyes met and the man startled a bit at seeing Csoda awake. Then he smiled wide, his smile as broad and strong as every other aspect of him. “You’re awake? Yes…that’s right…you are getting stronger. You must eat…or you will die on me…and that will not do.”

The man reached over with his free hand, cupping Csoda's chin gently, he tilted Csoda’s head back even as he pulled down on his chin, opening his mouth. Csoda was too weak to protest as the man poured the newly masticated food into his mouth with his other cupped hand.

Csoda did not gag. He swallowed the offered food. His throat spasmed, his stomach rolled, he could feel the food feeding his body, feel his blood surge with new life. He closed his eyes but didn’t black out. He let himself feel the food, the life returning. He let himself smell the stench of their cage and the occasional fresh smells that came from a slight breeze through the wood panels. He listened to the sound of the man talking next to him and the sounds from outside their wagon. He heard the groans of wood and other men, a distant lion roar, the shuffling and snorting of what must be oxen, camels and horses. He felt the man pat his shoulder kindly and speak to him.

“Yes…you are getting stronger…I will help you…sleep now…we have some time.”

Eventually, Csoda did sleep, and this time he dreamed. He dreamed of the shores of the sea covered with the bodies of dead lambs. He dreamed of horses running and the smell of salt water air. He dreamed of his tribe and clouds of thick smoke darkening the sky. He dreamed he was behind the eyes of a soaring hawk, and he dreamed of a child.

He saw a young boy dressed in colorful clothing made from dyed patches of leather. The boy stretched his thin arms up towards Csoda. In his small hands he grasped a strange brass object covered in fine detailed carvings and full of intricate pieces all connected together in a complicated pattern.

The boy looked up at him with greenish blue eyes that sparkled like rare cut gemstones, his ebony hair tussled loosely over part of his face and he spoke in Csoda’s native tongue, “Csoda…the watch…it is not working…”

Csoda hovered between two worlds for a while, half asleep, half awake. If anyone was listening they would hear him whisper, “What is a watch?”

Csoda’s dreams melded with the world that his weak body occupied. He no longer fell into unconscious blackness when he passed out, but instead drifted between a conscious recognition of the space around him and an elaborate dream space full of dramatic imagery and untouchable meaning. This dream state proved to be both an escape from his physical and mental pain as well as an amplifier of it. He remembered his name and who he was, but he could barely recognize what was real and what was imagined.

When he first heard the rhythm it mixed with his dream seamlessly. First it was the thunder in the distant clouds and then it was the stamping hoof of a moon gray horse standing before him and pawing the ground. Soon the images faded but the rhythm became louder, its beats more precise.

The rhythm pulled him out of dreams and into memories and for a brief moment he thought he was back in his homeland, sleeping upon the back of a strong horse, the movement of the animal inspiring song. The memory was strong enough that he actually opened his mouth, filled his chest with breath and attempted to sing, but only a weak, infertile sound gurgled forth. The pathetic sound was accompanied by pain and sorrow and he was pulled back into the reality that he had no tongue to sing with anymore.

Still the rhythm tapped against the wood floor he laid upon, it blended with the rocking of his body that moved with the shifting motion of their prison wagon. They were being pulled through what appeared to be a dark night. This was not a dream.

His eyes adjusted to the dark and he could see the strong man sitting next to him, tapping the rhythm onto the floor, humming a familiar melody that Csoda remembered singing a long time ago.

“You are from the Nagy Föld?” Csoda thought to himself…wishing he could speak…could ask.

The man turned his head and locked eyes with Csoda, as if he heard his thoughts, and maybe he did. The man’s gaze was as steady as steel, his brown eyes were so dark that it was hard to distinguish where his pupils ended and his irises began. Csoda, in response to his wish to communicate, began to tap along with the song’s rhythm. This made the man smile, a wide open smile that enlarged his eyes and exposed a set of strong, straight teeth.

Csoda did not know this man, at least they had never truly met, they were not old friends, or from the same tribe. However, he knew now for sure that they were both of the Törzsi Nomádok. They were Children of the Steppe, Brothers of the Stag, Falcon, Wolf, and Horse. They were the nomads, the travelers, the wind runners and the drum singers. They spoke each other’s language and they recognized each other’s culture. They had learned similar stories as children, ate the same meals, had the same traditions. Their mothers had probably played familiar games, their fathers had taught them similar skills, and they had learned the same songs while sitting with their tribes by the campfires.

They stared at each other as two wolves greeting after they had not seen their own kind in many years. A stare that is terrifying to others but makes the wolves rejoice. This was how it felt to be in the presence of a fellow countryman, a creature of his own ancestral pack. Even in these horrid circumstances, and maybe because of them, it brought the forbidden feeling of hope into Csoda's heart.

He began to tap against the floor in more complicated rhythms, the rhythms of a stampeding herd. If he could no longer sing, at least he could still drum. They both smiled now as they played against the wooden floor and their efforts built increasingly complicated rolling patterns and beats. The man changed his voice from a rumbling baritone hum and started to sing more of a melody, but with only sounds not words, “hey deya data heaya deaya data.”

Each sound punctuated the rolling combination of rhythms and Csoda's heart ached. Even in this horrible place, his countryman, he himself, could smile, could find a way to raise their hopes and he felt strength in that realization. Perhaps his struggle and his recent defeat was not a true failure but a strange shift in destiny.

They finished the song somewhat quietly, letting the rhythms trickle into simpler patterns and the man’s deep voice returned to a nostalgic hum. The crickets started chirping around them and they allowed the music to drift into the natural sounds of evening. They sat in silence for a while, each taking in the air and surrounding sounds. Then the man spoke, quietly.

“I know who you are,” he murmured, “But I know you don’t know me, do you?” He winked, as if the joke was on Csoda for not being informed. “Of course not. You were a leader and, well, I… I…well, I am not worth knowing. Heh.” The man chuckled for a bit, his private joke increasing his smile. Then he turned his head to look at Csoda again. His expression became serious and he adopted a steady formal gaze, nodding his head and stating, “My name is Biro. I am of the Észak- Vadászok, from the Turul Mountains.”

Csoda nodded, looking Biro in the eyes. This was what he suspected. A fellow tribesman from the Nagy Föld, the great land of the Törzsi Nomádok, the nomadic tribes.

The nomadic tribes were, or at least they used to be, great in their numbers. Different groups of them had specific territories that they frequented within the Nagy Föld, though all of the nomads considered each other kinsmen and often crisscrossed each other’s territories as needed with no problems.

Csoda knew of Biro’s group, the Észak- Vadászok, hunters from the north. Biro fit the description of their tribe, a group known for their skills as hunters and warriors who possessed great physical strength, resilience, and fortitude.

“I saw you speak once,” Biro continued. “Speak and sing. I was in the crowd, at the meeting of tribes, and you told us that we needed to stay together…to stand as one against them.” Biro’s eyes were bright now, his smile broadening as he spoke. “I remember your voice, ahhh…it made everyone’s heart ache. Old men who barely could walk were pulled up to dance, women wept. They took your tongue for good reason, eh? But now, sitting here, even with you halfway dead, I think they made a mistake. You may be silent but there is something about you that makes me want to rise to action, even now.” Biro nodded knowingly, leaned in towards Csoda, “You have ‘it’? Yes?” And then with a hushed voice he declared, “You know…the Húzza Művészet…The Art of the Pull.”

Csoda, upon having the magic spoken of, hurriedly looked for the shadows of the guards that occasionally passed by their darkened cage, frightened to have more of himself exposed then had already been stripped of him.

Biro shook his head quickly, dismissing Csoda’s fear, “Do not worry…the guards are away, and they don’t know what it means…even if they did speak our language. Plus, I speak all the time, when you are passed out and when you are awake. It helps numb them to hearing my voice.” Biro smiled and c****d his head, giving Csoda a knowing wink. “They think I’m crazy after all. I prefer it that way. But…I know what The Pull is.” He sat up straight and pounded his chest with his thick fist “That’s right my friend. We are brothers in blood…as well as in piss. You will live. I will make sure of it or die in the effort. And… if you can, I want to know…I want to know the magic of my people…I want to reconnect with my ancestors like we used to. Teach me The Pull and I will be loyal to you forever. Will you?”

Csoda paused. He looked Biro over, trying to see something beyond the physical aspects of the man before him.

Biro was obviously strong, even in their horrid conditions he was muscled and athletic. He could also tell that Biro was sharp minded, but what he was trying to see was subtler. While some aspects of the magic they called The Pull came naturally to all of the nomadic people, an individual who wanted to learn it on a more advanced level had to have an extra spark of something special to be worthy.

Csoda found that he wanted to teach Biro. He wanted the art to live past his own life, but he could not tell, he was too weak to truly read Biro’s potential. However, he would not say no–not yet. He pursed his lips, looked down at the dirt on the floor and with the fingers of his chained hands scratched the symbols of their written language, “If I can.”

Biro nodded happily, content with that response. He took in a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. He was silent for a while, just staring into the air. Then he spoke, as if in prayer, confessing to the space before him, as if his God sat there with them in the filth. “Yes, I have not always lived in a way that would make you proud, but I have survived, and that is worth something.” He calmly turned his head, addressing Csoda directly, “Csoda, the Gods have put me here now, in this hell with you, with all of my faults…but I know how to survive in hell and maybe that will be worth something to you. Just as you… being blessed with the magic of our ancestors…is worth everything to me.”

Again they sat in silence for a long time, so long that Csoda could not tell if he had drifted in and out of sleep a few times. Their wagon rocked methodically and in the distance he heard men talking and the grunts and growls of different beasts. His curiosity awoke once more and he tapped the floor, getting Biros attention before scratching in the dirt. “Where?”

Biro read the note, his eyes narrowed as he nodded solemnly and with a deep and grave tone he answered Csoda’s inquiry, “We, my brother, are captives in the Grand Kirkos.” He smiled sadly, as if the meaning of his own words weighed on his heart. Letting his eyes survey their small cell slowly he continued, “You should sleep now….you will need your strength…we still have time.”