The Lampo Circus Page 4

  The next act involved four acrobats on a tightrope. As they balanced on the wire, hooded black figures appeared below them and hurled beach balls, cricket bats and even the occasional toaster in order to topple them. The audience held its breath and hoped ambulances were at hand, but the acrobats dodged every missile and did not even falter. They skipped, hopped and tumbled along the wire effortlessly, even waltzing with each other at times. When one momentarily lost his footing it was clearly intentional, as he caught one of the beach balls in midair and threw it out to the audience before vaulting back up to the tightrope, where he landed as lightly as a cat.

  Other acts followed, each more riveting than the last. Fireworks exploded from the ears of the tattooed fire breather they had seen in the town square, and an escape artist known as Moolini hacked and wriggled his way out of a sticky web before ravenous spiders a hand’s breadth in size made a meal of him.

  Before the children knew it, Lampo was announcing that interval had arrived. He invited them to partake of the refreshments provided and reminded them to pay a visit to the fortune-teller’s booth, which had been set up just outside the big tent.

  ‘Our fortune-teller hails all the way from the Po Valley and is none other than my own little grandmother. Nonna Luna would be more than happy to look into the seeds of time for you. She keeps no secrets, so find out who will prosper and who will perish…if you have the nerve.’

  Milli and Ernest spilled outside with all the other children to stretch their legs, but could not speak so overwhelmed were they by what they had seen. Suddenly, two nimble figures whisked by and pulled them into the shadows.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Milli began crossly, but stopped when she recognised the faces of the twins, Finn and Fennel. This time they were dressed in flared aqua-blue jumpsuits and covered in sequins from ankle to collar. They were an eye-catching sight.

  ‘We need a favour,’ Finn gabbled. ‘Urgently!’

  ‘Well, it’s not for us,’ elaborated Fennel. ‘It’s Nonna Luna—she can’t read without Wild Butterbean Thistle and she’s run out.’

  ‘What in heaven’s name is Wild Butterbean Thistle?’ demanded Ernest.

  ‘A herb, of course,’ said Finn. ‘Puts her into a trance so she can activate her second sight. She’s in a terrible state and Lampo won’t be happy if he finds out.’

  ‘We would get it for her ourselves,’ Fennel hastened to add, ‘only we’re on next. Can you help?’

  Milli and Ernest exchanged puzzled looks. The last thing they needed just before the second half of the show (which, if Lampo was to be believed, would prove even more exhilarating than the first) was to be sent off on a tedious errand. Especially one to help somebody’s grandmother they hadn’t even met. They turned longingly back to the tent, but Finn and Fennel looked so desperate that neither Milli nor Ernest had the heart to refuse them. Perhaps if they hurried they could be back before the second act began.

  ‘Where do we find it?’ asked Milli.

  She watched instant relief spread across the freckled faces of the twins, who shook their hands and thanked them repeatedly before turning and hurrying away.

  ‘Wait!’ Milli called after them. ‘You haven’t told us where to find Wild Butterbean Thistle!’

  But Finn and Fennel were already disappearing inside the circus tent.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Ernest threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘This is a perfect example of why it’s a bad idea to make new friends. They can be such work. How will we ever find this hallucinogenic herb in time?’

  ‘We’re going to have to try,’ said Milli, a hint of half-heartedness detectable in her voice. She wanted to help Finn and Fennel but she found it hard to believe that the twins could make such an impossible request and then leave without giving them instructions.

  Wasting no time, Milli and Ernest embarked on a quest through the town. They wandered aimlessly for a few minutes before realising there was only one person who could really help them. Ernest’s Aunt Bulb had recently set up her own herbal pharmacy in a cobbled lane off Drabville’s main square. She used her knowledge of botany to make her own brand of herbal remedies she called Bulb-Aids. When they arrived, the children found Aunt Bulb consulting with a customer who was describing the behaviour of a persistent verruca.

  ‘We’re going to have to call in the big guns,’ Aunt Bulb was saying. ‘You will need a mixture of cat’s urine and sea salt—a tricky combination but guaranteed to dissolve the most persistent of fungal growths.’

  She removed the stopper from a bottle and poured its contents into a jar, then added a generous spoonful of white grains from a mortar and pestle. She gave the mixture a few good shakes and handed it to the patient whose expression suggested that living with the ugly growth did not seem such a bad option after all.

  ‘Morning and night for a week,’ Aunt Bulb instructed firmly.

  ‘Hello, dears,’ she greeted the children once the verruca victim was on his way.

  ‘What brings you here on the last day of the circus?’

  She bustled about in her white lab coat and safety goggles, carefully arranging rows of glass bottles with handwritten labels on the shelves. When the children explained the purpose of their unexpected visit, Aunt Bulb’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Wild Butterbean Thistle, you say?’ she mused. ‘Do you mean the herb famous for warding off boggarts and swamp monkeys?’

  ‘That’s the one!’ the children cried. Of course, they had no idea what other things Wild Butterbean Thistle could do but they were in a hurry to get back to the circus and willing to accept anything with stalks.

  ‘You can’t mean the plant herbalists mix with Edelweiss and Catnip to induce invisibility?’ Bulb continued in her own frenzy of excitement.

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘The plant that restores youth if you stuff your pillow full of it and sleep face down on it for a month?’

  ‘That’s the one!’

  ‘You can’t be referring to the same Wild Butterbean Thistle that in the wrong hands can be used to summon the dead?’

  ‘Yes, yes—have you got some?’

  ‘Wild Butterbean Thistle hasn’t been seen in these parts for over a hundred years. I’ve only read about it myself, but I don’t think you’ll find anyone within a thousand miles who has actually seen it, let alone used it.’ Bulb folded her arms. ‘Sorry, dears, but I can’t help.’

  Milli looked at Ernest. ‘Is it just me or do you get the feeling that we’ve been sent on a wild goose chase?’

  Feeling both angry and foolish, the children sprinted back to the village green. Checking the Town Hall clock, they realised the matinee performance would be close to over by the time they got back. They could not believe they had been tricked like this. Wild Butterbean Thistle was virtually extinct. Surely Finn and Fennel must have known that? And if they did, what was the purpose of their ruse? What did they hope to gain by it?

  The children were mere metres from the red tent, hoping there would be at least one more act left before the show ended, when something extraordinary happened. A buzzing like electricity filled the air. A sharp wind blew up, stinging their eyes and slapping their faces. Before they could gather their thoughts, Federico Lampo’s circus tent began to collapse and fold like an umbrella before their very eyes. Was this the final act? But where were all the children? They must still be inside.

  When sparks began to shoot out Milli knew something was amiss. She gave a cry and tried to move towards the tent which now bobbed in the field like a bottle at sea, but the wind drove her back. She could hardly see for the dust that was kicked up. In the middle of it all, the tent gave an enormous shudder, wobbled slightly and launched like a zeppelin straight into the air.

  For a moment, the children simply stood riveted. Then Milli came to her senses. ‘Quick!’ she shouted, forcing her way towards the rapidly rising tent. The thick golden tassels that had worked as pegs were now being tossed about in the wind. Milli looked up at them. They were ju
st close enough to grab if she jumped. Another few seconds and they would be out of her reach.

  ‘Get hold of a tassel,’ she shouted to Ernest. Bracing herself, Milli leapt with as much strength as she could muster. She felt the silky fringe of the tassel beneath her fingers and held tight, the muscles in her arms straining.

  ‘Jump!’ she yelled to Ernest below.

  Ernest tried a couple of times and missed. He landed in a heap on the ground.

  ‘Get up!’ Milli urged. ‘Try again!’

  Ernest bent his knees before making a final lunge and this time the tassel did not slip through his fingers. He felt his hand close around it just in time.

  With a judder and a jolt the tent was propelled high above the treetops. The tassels blistered their hands and the wind flung their small bodies from side to side like kites, but the children clung on like death, so determined were they not to be left behind. The tent burst through cloud, dampening them so that they shivered all over. They closed their eyes and tried to remain calm as they followed Federico Lampo and his Travelling Circus on their furthest journey yet…into the sky.

  Part II

  Turbulent Times

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Oslo the Gladiator

  Milli and Ernest woke in a sun-bleached wheat field. They recalled nothing of how they got there and there was no sign of the tent or anything remotely connected to the circus. Rubbing their eyes, they sat up, as did the other children all around them, and gazed at the washed-out world they now found themselves in. For some time nobody spoke, for fear words might break the fragile barrier between reality and make-believe. As long as the unnatural silence remained, they could still trust in the idea that this was an illusion executed by the Lampo Circus. Any moment now they would blink and find themselves back in the tent. Ringmaster Lampo would commend them on their participation and their parents would be waiting outside to collect them.

  But more minutes passed and nothing changed. Presently, some of the younger children began to whimper while the older ones took a few tentative, directionless steps in search of some sort of explanation.

  The heavy silence was interrupted by the sound of galloping hooves. Several hundred small faces turned to stare at the black charger rapidly approaching. The horse’s muscles flexed and rippled in its powerful body and Ernest held his breath as it drew so near he feared they might be trampled.

  But it reared at the last moment, grinding its hooves into the ground and sending clods of earth flying. The animal (which they would later learn was named Fiend) towered above them. On its back sat a rider whose face was hidden behind a helmet.

  Any hope the children had that this was a circus official come to explain what had gone wrong with the stunt and guide them safely home evaporated once the rider dismounted. He was dressed in what Ernest recognised from lessons on ancient civilisations as full gladiatorial armour. He wore a pleated tunic, leather sandals and across his shoulder was slung a shield engraved with the image of a griffin. A scabbard hung from his waist, housing a long sword. He had greasy black hair tied back samurai-style and his scowl looked so permanent it might have been a feature in its own right. Muscles bulged in his thighs and biceps and his neck was as thick as a bull’s.

  The man’s eyes narrowed menacingly as he surveyed the children, his expression similar to that of a hawk about to swoop on its prey. He raised a bronzed arm into the air and Ernest saw a wide copper band circling his forearm, glinting in the sunlight. Unexpectedly he made them jump by letting out a roar that was not recognisably human. The children watched as he tightened his fingers into a powerful fist. The muscles in his arm swelled so alarmingly that the copper band burst apart and fell in fragments to the ground. The man did not have to utter a single syllable for the children to understand the meaning behind this action. The look he gave them spoke volumes: any child who crossed him would end up wrapped around his forearm until they too exploded.

  The man remounted his horse and cantered around the group, driving them closer together like a herd of sheep.

  ‘Move!’ was the first word he uttered and, seeing there was no other alternative, the children complied with this directive and broke en masse into a run. Soon the wheat field was a pale blur behind them.

  As they tired, the children were permitted to slow to a jog, and eventually instructed to ‘Halt!’ before a pair of towering gates. An inscription above them read: Veni, Vidi, Vici. Milli wondered if this might be the name of the place, but Ernest’s forays into Latin told him it had something to do with a famous historical emperor who had been preoccupied with the idea of claiming everything he set eyes upon.

  Inside the gates, the children found themselves in an enclosure dotted with a scattering of thatched huts. An impenetrable-looking fence made of sharpened palings surrounded the entire camp and obscured any view of what lay beyond. But there was one edifice too lofty to be completely concealed. A majestic jade citadel rose from amid the western hills, its chilly green spires seeming to pierce the sky like blades. Milli’s gaze lingered on this distant vision for a moment and she tried to imagine its residents. She was recalled sharply to the present by the snarling voice that addressed them.

  ‘Welcome, weaklings, to Battalion Minor, which you will hereafter regard as your new home,’ the man said sternly. ‘I am Oslo, retired gladiator, master of the fighting arts and your new personal trainer. It would be wise to pay attention and follow my instructions at all times. In fact, I would go so far as to say your very survival depends on it. Many of you would not be aware that a war is raving for which we must all be prepared.’

  ‘A raving war?’ whispered Ernest. ‘Doesn’t he mean “raging”?’

  Milli elbowed him into silence but Ernest had already drawn Oslo’s attention.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ he roared. ‘Your training begins immediately and, I warn you, it will not prove easy. Here at Battalion Minor you will learn to live by the three S’s: sacrifice, stoicism, submission. You should count yourselves lucky. It is an unmistigated honour to be accepted into this school.’

  Oslo’s speech, which he had obviously prepared without the help of a dictionary, was interrupted when a moon-faced boy, reminded of being at school, piped up. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Oslo reeled as if he had been hit by a tonne of bricks. His head swivelled in all directions and he almost lost his footing from disbelief at being interrupted.

  ‘Which of you spoke?’ he barked.

  The boy’s hand rose tentatively and all eyes turned towards him.

  The speaker’s name was Gummy Grumbleguts. His passion was guzzling, which gave him as much pleasure as lexicons gave Ernest or adventures gave Milli. In fact, he was still clutching an empty packet of peppermints he had been munching at the circus and lolly wrappers were stuck to the seat of his pants.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ Gummy frowned innocently. ‘None of us here actually applied.’

  For a moment the gladiator called Oslo looked as though he might be tempted to knock the boy’s head off like a melon using his riding crop, which was already twitching in his hand. But at the last minute he seemed to reconsider whether the boy was worthy of the effort decapitation would require. Instead, he satisfied himself with looking Gummy up and down from his well-padded ankles to his mop of sandy hair and potato-dumpling nose. Gummy shifted uneasily under the scrutiny, but could not quite manage to bring his feet together to achieve a more military stance on account of the chubbiness of his thighs. He scratched absently at an insect bite on his neck that he must have acquired on the journey for he certainly could not recall having it that morning. Along with the heat, it was really starting to bother him.

  Looking at this clumsy new recruit, Oslo could not control a chuckle of derision. ‘If you didn’t apply, then you must be just lucky.’

  He turned his attention back to the group and tried to resume where he had left off. ‘Allow me to briefly acquit you with the geography of our facility.’ (Ernest had difficul
ty repressing a smirk at Oslo’s misuse of language.) ‘To the left, the ablutions block.’

  The children turned to see a row of rusty troughs filled with murky water. Wooden cups and ladles floated on the scummy surface. Behind the troughs were cubicles of corrugated iron which they surmised must be toilets. Oslo kicked a door open to reveal a metal bucket buzzing with blowflies and a stack of newspapers on the floor.

  ‘To the left are the barracks, where you will sleep, and directly behind you is the mess hall, where you will parboil of your meals. Lastly,’ he gestured to an open expanse near the perimeter of the compound, ‘the training ground.’

  ‘When can we go home?’ a little girl with the face of a cherub cried out.

  Oslo was not so much outraged as impatient this time. Children were not something he had been required to manage in his previous positions of responsibility. They were proving to be quite trying.

  ‘Questions are only permitted between the hours of midnight and 5 am,’ he snarled.

  ‘But we’ll be asleep then,’ the girl said with disappointment.

  ‘Precisely,’ Oslo replied.

  Milli opened her mouth to object to this lack of logic but Oslo cut her off.

  ‘It was curiosity that killed the cat—remember that, weaklings, and it is certainly not recommended here. Not if you want to survive, that is! Don’t expect anyone to make allowances for your age. You are soldiers of the Realm now. Soldiers do not ask questions; they follow instructions. Before you know it, I will turn you into warriors, unstoppable fighting machines, whoremongers ravenous for victory!’

  ‘I think you mean “warmongers”,’ Ernest quietly corrected, unable to let this latest slip pass.