The Trident Clown

Chapter 1 ~ The Harlin's Fairground

Valsbury his country

He hates being a country boy

Only Harlin's rocks

~ Haiku poem

HE HATES WHEN she calls him by his full name.

"Ian Trevor!"

"Argh, I'm only five metres away, Mom! Will you stop yelling already?"

"Your schoolbag, pumpkin!!"

"f**k, almost forgot it again." Ian said.

"Ian!!!"

"Sorry Mom, no more cuss words again, I cross my heart and hope to die."

"Ian!!!"

"OK, OK… I cross my heart and hope to cry."

Beep Beep!

A yellow school bus caked with dried mud, splotched with dirt and grime in its half lowermost part pulled up by the roadside and blared its "blasted" horn.

That was exactly how Lisa, Ian's Mom cussed the bus.

"Oh my gosh! The school bus is here already," an exasperated Ian said, bouncing on the balls of his — well, bouncing on his sneakers.

Lisa agreed. "Yes, it is. Come take your bag in the living room."

"Just hand it over. I don't want to take off my sneakers and soil the sparkling floor the best Mom in the world's cleaning."

Lisa, who was leaning on her dripping mopstick, smiled owing to her son's remark. As soon as the smile appeared, it was replaced by an irksome frown. An eyebrow shot up.

"What Mom, did I forget something again?"

"Of course you did, you little dingbat."

"That's a cuss word, Mom."

"Don't you try to change the topic. You didn't say please."

"When?"

"When you ordered me to hand over your schoolbag."

"Pleeeaaassseee," and Ian droned on for ages.

"Alright…" but Ian didn't stop. "Ok…" and he went on. "f**k! Here you go, you scrawny bag of bones." Lisa literally yelled.

"Thank you," said Ian sugarily, ran off, hopped on into the dirty yellow school bus and took a seat by the window. His seat.

Ian was the first passenger. Always, he was.

A doodly heart shape appeared on the vapoured window of the distant bus and Lisa was astonished by her eagle-eyedness.

Later on, she thought that Bigelow the school bus driver, should put in some effort in cleaning the filthy bus at least. Even if it's once in a fortnight.

Then her furious thoughts drifted to the school management: They should fire the driver

if he's incapable. If only she knew how close she was to the truth.

Just when she was close to reaching c****x of her furious thoughts, a little finger traced a "I" and a "U" by the sides of the love symbol, sandwiching it in this manner:

"I♡U"

The anger balloon hovering over Lisa's head popped and in an instant was replaced by a huge yellow smiley plastered on her face.

Her heart melted the way Bigelow aka Zip Ties—angrily used to melt away the doodles drawn by "the spawns of devil" on dusty days.

And also on frosty days too when you could see your breath coming out from your nose and mouth and the glass seemed kind of hazy when you breath on it.

Bigelow had given up cleaning the once sparkly bus on a particularly breezy Monday. He had complained about "the spawns of devil" and his rheumatoid arthritis to the management but still insisted on working as a driver.

How could the school allow a grumpy, rickety old man with rheumaticky pains behind his every joint to handle children and brakes?

Preposterous! Ian had thought. Hate is too much a strong word for Ian to use for the black driver but he disliked Bigelow, brim over.

The man might as well end up murdering all the children even if his bones were hale and well… bony. He's that grumpy.

Lisa waved her son goodbye, the mop held in the other hand. She might not know yet but it's probably for the last time.

☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

The blur of blue, green and brown swooshed past Ian as he pressed his face to the cold window glass, disenjoying the country's panoramic view.

He watched almost boringly, trying to catch the outline of an ugly tree, the speck of an ugly bird or the ugly square cottages outside of the ugly speeding bus.

Suddenly, why everything seemed ugly in Valsbury made sense to him. Because he enjoys seeing them like that. Ugly. They gave him the glee.

The bus pulled up by an automatic metal gate which opened up due to some technical errors. Two identical twins sharing the same hue of auburn hair stepped out of the mansion behind the gates.

One was a boy with smooth hair wearing a docile demeanor and the girl had her long wavy hair packed into a bushy ponytail. Or was it a horse tail? Oh, a fox tail would have made more sense if only such words exist. She looked as though she had a rotten egg, sour milk and lemon peel combo for breakfast.

They walked briskly, their olive skin glistening in the morning sunlight as they stepped into the doorway that led into the alley of the bus.

And zoom. Without allowing them to sit down, the bus pulled away.

"Finally," both automatic gates screeched metallically as they wheeled over the gate rail and clinched together, protecting the magnificent mansion once again.

Apparently, the bus had parked really close to the gates that it triggered them to open up, making it appear like some kind of technical error, but the moment it went away, the gate seemed to fix itself.

Inside, the boy by the window acted like he didn't notice the auburn-haired twins a bit. The girl led, took a seat behind the driver. Obligingly, the boy followed and sat beside her.

Therefore, onward the yellow bus moved. It climbed over Our Twinkles Curve, a bridge named after the late architect, T. W. Rinkles.

The old arch bridge was given that name because the countrypeople thought Our Twinkles Curve oozed more countryside colour compared to Rinkles Bridge—which by no doubt, used to be the previous name.

Ian examined the acacias and cottonwoods lining the River Nidvera below the bridge with contempt.

The ugly trees wound in and out of the edge of the meandering riverbank and served as windbreakers against the recurring wind erosion.

Still and anon, vertical rocky outcrops known as crags jutted out from the belly of the fast-flowing river, their wet and jagged points shimmering and appearing threatening to unwary swimmers.

And ominous to faraway onlookers like Ian.

He shuddered at the riverscape and turned away. The sharp crags only deliver him bad memories whenever he sights them.

Bloody rocks!

Ian recollected the last thing Dan had said before getting pierced by a sharp crag while he was spectating from the sloppy riverbank.

"I can't swim….. Iaannn!" and then the river turned red with blood. That was it. The end of daring Dan.

Dan was Ian's twin brother—popular highschool champ—who used to play basketball for the Hedgehogs before they left the city.

He and Ian might be twins but they are living proof that opposite attracts. The only personality Ian shared in correspondence with his twin brother was that they were daredevils—a trait they got from Trevor.

When the Trevors were forced to move away because their property was on "restricted area," Dan's emotions shifted from jolly to morose.

His idea of fun changed too. His not-so-daring city adventures became high-adventures—where every twists and turns was filled with extremities, dangers and excitements.

This made Lisa conclude that all her boys were hard cases. At one point, she thought of opting for therapy but she dismissed the idea. And it was not like she had any girl, although she so wished badly for one.

She believed where the boys took the character of Trevor—may his soul rest in peace—her unborn girl would take her gentle personality. Gentle? She had laughed at herself then.

But it would be easier and relatable bringing up a girl child than those hyperactive boys, she had concurred. Maybe, just maybe, Bigelow was right to call them, "spawns of devil." She'd tear him apart if she ever hear him call her sons devil's spawn.

It was during one of those hot, boring Saturdays in Valsbury when Lisa went to the fairground that both boys had slipped away to play Skitter-Over-The-River (a game where you hop from rocks to rocks, get to the other side of the river and hop back again). Dan had fallen and instantly gotten impaled by a crag.

Also there was a stupefied look on his face before he slipped, as though he had sighted blood.

Ian, who wasn't in a playful mood, was standing by the bank. He had turned his head, only to see a blur of red disappear into the trees. There was also a metallic glint as if the mysterious figure was holding something shiny—a b****y weapon?—a mirror with golden frame splattered with blood?—a b****y fisherman hacking away at a silvery salmon? The b****y options were limitless.

Ian had hastily waved off the thought. There was a more pressing situation at hand, like his brother flailing his arms in the craggy Nidvera.

Ian knew his brother's Achilles heel was blood. His weak spot. That's the only thing that can make the daring boy sit motionless like a trained dog and—

—And the ghastly memory still haunts Ian in his dreams. A boy lying comatose on a sharp crag. Dead and impaled. It remained there—permanently tattooed to his subconscious mind.

Guilt!

He had run for help because he couldn't swim either. When he came back with two macho fishermen, his twin brother had given up his frantic struggle for life.

How so much Ian hates the crags and the river and the trees and his school and everything about Valsbury!

How so much he hates becoming a countrysider!

The only part he likes is the Harlin's Fairground and slowly he is losing interest in that too. Is he not?

Growing out of the dizzying merry-go-rounds, the jolting bumper cars, the nerve-wracking rollercoasters, the sliding Helter-skelter castles, the circling Ferris wheel, the romantic Tunnels of Love, the spinning Tilt-a-Whirl and so many, many more. He thought about these in the bus and his interest sparked up.

Nevertheless, Ian missed his past city life. The hustles and the bustles, the night outings, the nonchalance of the city's denizens, his interhouse race competition, his best friend, George, and also his whiskery ragdoll cat—Daphodil that enjoys being picked up and covered with furry kisses.

He misses everything about city life and he can't wait to become an adult and move out of Valsbury.

The bus skidded to a halt by one of the many eighteenth century-looking square cottages basking delightfully after the arch bridge. A boy whom Ian neither liked nor despised hopped in. Rupert.

Rupert was a snaggletooth who enjoys talking about his latest experiences at the Harlin's Fairground, which was fairly close to where he lives. To cap it all off, he lived with his demented grandparents that were always fantasizing about spending the rest of their youthful lives in a farm in Straddfordshire. This gave him all the liberty in the world.

And it makes Ian green with envy. That he can't visit the fairground when he wishes to—which is literally never—drives him crazy. That Lisa was always on his neck ever since his twin brother died boils his teeming hormones. That he was subtly grounded FOREVER makes him traumatized!

The Rupert boy smiled, his school shirr unbuttoned, his trouser fraying, his hand large and his nails grubby with dirt. His uneven dentition became more evident as he smiled and waved. "Hey you."

Ian waved back and smiled a small, meaningless smile. "Yo," he said casually.

"Can I have a seat beside you?" the large boy said

Come have it, futhermucker. Ian grinned inwardly at this thought. He was already thinking about how his mom would screech if she heard him say this out loud.

Ian had withdrew from making friends since he moved into Valsbury. After his brother died, he withdrew more into himself, enshelling himself from the world. There's no friend to make because he was depressed and traumatized.

"Can I?" Rupert asked again, already beside Ian who was lost in his mischievous thoughts.

"Oh, yeah, why not... Here. Fool" He didn't say the last word aloud.

And they both sat together nonspeaking as the engine stuttered back to life. The bus continued its cruise through Valsbury.

Valsbury is a small, burgeoning deuseaville situated on a gentle highland miles away from civilization. That is in terms of its proximity to a modern city in this context.

Being a countryside town, most of the townspeople indulge in boring rural occupations like fishing, farming and mining. These three were their major productive sources of income.

Others involve themselves in activities that branch off from these three major productive occupations.

For instance, the trading of farm produces grown by the farmers, or the seafood caught by the fishermen and the ores excavated by the miners.

For this very reason, the Harlin's Fairground was created by the then Mayor Harlin Bushlow to facilitate the convenient trading of two of the major goods: farm produce and seafood.

A dusty quarry where ore is excavated, sold and also delivered laid juxtaposed to the Harlin's, contrasting the lively, happy fairground with its annoyingly loud clanks and clunks. But the townspeople are not complaining about the incessant metal clangs and the booming explosions.

On the contrary, they are so grateful to the mayor that the noise soon became a tuneful melody to their immune ears. It was named Quarry of Tunes for some obvious reasons.

Ian turned back to the window when he was sure they must've passed the craggy Nidvera. Then he continued watching, ignoring Rupert totally as they flew past the wide expanse of the fairground and the quarry.

The desire to play hooky and go to the fairground overwhelmed Ian in an instance but he couldn't ask Rupert to go with him.

Never!

And too bad, Bigelow won't even hear him out twice before buckling him up with his renowned zip ties.

The old driver usually keeps them plenty as blackberries in the yellow school bus. For a reason which the school management thought fathomable.

Back to the Harlin's Fairground, once upon a time, it was a very large, abandoned farm with a series of humongous manor houses where generations of Spiveys had broken unleavened breads (and heads too) and had banquets in the Big Hall.

The gardens were once nourished with beautifully trimmed miniature topiary, most of which were exotic and imported. All these were the tell-tale signs of the farm's previous opulence.

Due to its dereliction, these grand works of arts became bland works of nature. The topiary trees simply went overboard and lost their professional touch.

The farm business died together with the Farm Man. That's what everyone called the muscular owner who was always seen wearing Wellingtons too small for his size around the cornfields. The Farm Man whose original name was Fletcher Spivey.

Before his death, the farm business had been blooming ever since the first Spivey set foot on the soil of Valsbury. For hundreds of years, the farm business went on. Come rainfall, come sunshine, come wind, come hail.

The Spiveys are unusually large and muscular people, almost ugly. The Spivey square jaws were the only thing that rescued their faces from complete ugliness. The Spivey ears are what you could describe as elephant's flaps. Yet the Spiveys were born farmers (talk about having green fingers) especially in the cornfields.

The old cornfields in the Spivey Farm had long since shifted from its green blee to golden brown, and the golden ears of wheats that once grew there had overripen, fallen and were waiting for the next rainfall to start the cycle afresh.

But they never did.

One calm autumn night, Mayor Harlin Bushlow brought in metallic monsters with robotic arms and flat tracks and those with round metal tyres that can crush diamonds without a groan from the neighbouring city. And he also brought dynamites and hired the help of the wrecker's ball to destroy the large farmhouses.

Now, talk about the calm before the storm.

It's rather astonishing and quite ironic how those metallic monsters work, for a minute now they might be constructing and another minute they're destroying.

"Destructive Constructors," that's what Ian had pegged the metal monsters after being forced to study the History of Valsbury before a steamy history exam which he indubitably failed.

Of course, that's what they did, the monsters. They destroyed; they constructed. In other words, they crushed the wheats, loosened the hard soil lumps, graded the soil, packed the loam, and began erecting stands, frames, stalls, Alpine slides, Ferris wheel and all sorts of typical fairground miscellanies.

Four years later, the almost-complete fairground proudly beheld the name of the mayor: The Harlin's Fairground.

It was not until a few years after when the demand of stall space shot up, the mayor ordered the extirpation of the sturdy, deciduous hickory trees with sweet, sweet nuts.

Ah good Lord, those ol' days when the lazy children of the Farm Man (Fletcher Spivey) gallivant around the hickory trees, sometimes opting to pluck the nuts and throw the inedible parts at one another or the plump workers.

Those days when the farm was blooming from miles away, you could see the faint green halo produced by the shiny leaves as the sun rays splashed on them.

Ahh, and that idyllic petrichor! When you could perceive the distinct earthly scent that accompanies the first rain on the Spivey Farm during the earliest wave of spring.

Those days when tulips, chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots and carnations were blooming and the hummingbirds and nightingales were humming with exuberance.

A time when the gardens were dotted with topiaries of horses, cows and even down to something as trivial as a porcupine bush.

Those days when the pig stys were cleaner than

many local five-star pubs in Valsbury, and the farm workers were living the life of Riley that they were getting fatter and lazier for their assigned tasks.

It's a pity that those days are gone. Like the reconciliation saying goes; let bygones be bygones. Same with those days, they are now bygones. It all seemed another lifetime ago.

In the Harlin's, the town folks muster their goods and trade. That's no fun at all. What's fun is when little children cling to the skirts of their mothers just for the sake of having a ride, play a game, watch the hoop-dancers and the mimes and the lone clown at the fairground.

As much as Ian will refuse to admit, he wishes to visit the fairground someday. So badly.

When the bus started billowing gray smoke and Bigelow parked, went behind, grabbed a crimson toolbox, returned to the front of the bus without uttering a word and started whistling as he bent over the hood, Ian and Rupert both exchanged meaningful glances. A Are-you-thinking-what-I'm-thinking glance.

Without prior notice, they both jumped off the bus and bounced gleefully to the Harlin's Fairground.