The Adventures of Mr. Maximillian Bacchus and His Travelling Circus Read Free

they appeared once more from over the top of the trees, and, having hovered over the guests’ heads for a few moments, returned to Indigo’s shoulders, head and fingers.
    “No! No!” she snapped. “You’re supposed to fly off now! You’re free!”
    But the birds took no notice. Instead, they flew onto the tables and began to perform their tricks. The kingfishers paddled around in the punch bowls, and the terns picked up bunches of grapes and dropped them in Bacchus’ lap, while the scaly Archaeopteryx plucked the hundreds of candles from the candelabras and systematically set fire to the tablecloths. The wine boiled in the chalices, and the roast swan took flight in flames. Screaming, the guests leapt up from their seats, as the fire consumed the wedding feast in their place, while the birds, squawking and cooing insanely, flew up above the flames and danced a wedding jig through the smoke. Except for the crackle of the burning tables and the din of the hysterical birds, there fell a horrid silence. The wedding celebrations were wrecked, the wine evaporated, the food devoured, the guests soaked in punch and filthy with smoke. Never had a Medici wedding been so ill-omened as this. Then, softly at first, from behind the leaping flames of the table, there began ripples of deep laughter, spreading through the silence. It was Mr. Bacchus. He laughed to see the ridiculous pomp brought low, to see the blue-blooded guests lose their dignity and walk on all fours like Nebuchadnezzar. Gradually, the tight-lipped faces of the guests softened, and the corners of their mouths began to twitch with smiles. Very soon they were all sitting in the tide of the grass, weeping with laughter. All except Indigo. She was furious.
    “Stupid birds!” she shouted up at them, her face growing redder than her hair. “Sure you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, spoiling the finale like that! What kind of performers do you think you are then? Where’s your sense of propriety?”
    “If you ask me,” said Malachi to Domingo, in his coolest tones, “she knew they wouldn’t fly off. She was always one for sentimentality.”
    The clown laughed. “Malachi,” he said. “You’re too suspicious.”
    “Suspicious? Me?” replied the crocodile, narrowing his eyes to slits. “You take my word for it—it’s like a woman, that. Nefertiti was the same.”
    “Who?”
    “A woman who captured me in my youth. A neck like a Nile swan she had, and eyes—eyes the colour of ….” He ceased there, gazing wistfully into the smoking ashes of the table.
    “He’s forgotten,” thought Domingo.
     
    ****
     
    That evening, when the time finally came for goodbye, all of Indigo’s birds were perched on her shoulders, chirping and screeching contentedly. The Archaeopteryx had even chosen to settle upon Lorenzo’s head. It was clear that they intended to stay.
    “Well, Indigo,” said Mr. Bacchus at the wrought-iron gates of the castle. “It’s time we were on our way. There are towns and villages—I can smell the autumn air now—from here to the Edge of the World, waiting for the Circus to appear! There are gaudy posters on mossy walls announcing our imminent arrival! We mustn’t get behind schedule. We shall miss you.”
    “Sure, and that’s nonsense,” said Indigo, with a sad smile.
    “Oh no,” said Mr. Bacchus. “You are the best bird girl in the world. Where will we ever find another act like yours?”
    “Not standing here,” yawned Malachi.
    Mr. Bacchus looked stern.
    “Crocodile,” he said, “a most inappropriate remark under the circumstances.”
    “Well,” replied Malachi, “I can’t do with sentiment.”
    “Sure and he’s right,” said Indigo. “You’ll find an act as good as mine any day now. And I think you’re a marvelous crocodile, sure I do, Malachi,” and she bent down and kissed his scaled nose.
    Malachi backed off with a startled look on his face.
    “Leave me alone,” he said, coughing loudly to mask his