The Snake Charm (Vestigial Tales #1) *COMPLETE*

Part 1: R.H. Ragona's Circus of Magic

"The show never ends with R.H. Ragona's Circus of Magic," the ringmaster cried, as he did every night, "but first, we must let it begin!"

Bil Ragona bowed and spread his arms wide, clutching his cane in one hand. The brass buttons on his red ringmaster's shirt glinted under the lights of the glass globes beneath the canvas big top. The seats were only half-filled in the small tent camped on the small beach of the even smaller town of Cowl, one of their stops on the way to Ellada's capital, Imachara.

The tumblers opened the show, somersaulting and flipping over one another. After their performance, the clowns cartwheeled onto the ring, taking their place in an ungainly echo of the tumbler's smooth grace. They settled into their routine as easy as breathing.

The clown in orange motley, the star of the troupe, walked stiffly into the center of the ring before falling limp at the waist. Only then could the audience see the large wind-up key sticking out from his back. The clowns all paused in their antics, looking at their unmoving leader in dismay and embarrassment. They mimed covering him from the audience, waving their hands. Nothing to see here.

The red clown darted forward, the horn on the gramophone warbling a wordless question. He cocked his head. He cranked the key ever so slightly. The orange clown's head popped up. The red clown and the others all squealed and ran away, hiding behind one another. The red clown crept forward, poking the other joker again. Nothing. The music rose, the horns urging him on. He squared his shoulders and twisted the key in the orange clown's back.

The orange clown came back to life, laughing uproariously. He gestured for the others to follow him, leading them into their act of blundering tumbles and practical jokes, and leaving the audience, though small, clutching their sides with laughter. Their act came to an end and they fled the stage.

The show continued, the clowns waiting in the wings before bumbling onto the stage to parody the previous act. They mocked the equestrians and the lion tamers, riding each other around the rings or forcing each other to jump through hoops.

They twined themselves into a tangled human knot, crab-walking about the ring, or they balanced on a tightrope a few feet above the ground, falling off it in increasingly outlandish ways and flipping around the perimeter of the circus ring. At the end of the show, all the performers of R.H. Ragona's Circus of Magic took a bow to the scattered applause of the diminished audience. Another show finished.

After the crowd dispersed back to their small, thatched homes in the town of Cowl up the slope from the beach, the circus built their usual large bonfire to keep away the early spring chill. The clowns clustered on the makeshift benches of driftwood. Linden, the orange clown, and Jive, the red clown, took the spots closer to the fire, with Linden lighting one of the thin rolled cigarettes from a tin in his pocket. Bil Ragona didn't like his acrobats smoking, but if there was one thing Drystan, the white clown, had noticed, it was that Linden didn't much care what Bil Ragona thought.

Drystan leaned against a log, his knees drawn up against his chest with his hands loosely clasped around them, one ear on the banter of the clowns and the other on the sounds of the other members of the circus. Karla and Tym, the equestrians, finished tending to the amber Kymri horses and leaned against each other, with Tym's arms snaking around Karla's shoulders. Aenea and Arik, the aerialists and final act of the circus, sipped their piss-poor ale and laughed with Madame Limond, the four-legged woman, and Poussin, called the human chicken for his bobbled skin and the red wattle on his neck.

Drystan stood to stretch, his muscles stiffening from the physical exertion of the show. Rag, one of the workers, bumped into him in as he passed, muttering something about white pansies blowing in the wind. Drystan rolled his eyes and stuck out a foot, tripping him. Rag landed face-first in the sand, spitting with rage.