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

embarrassment, and muttered, “Women! Forever slobbering over you. Nefertiti was the same.”
    When all the good-byes were done, everyone climbed aboard the painted caravan; Hero took the reins of Thoth, and they rattled off down the pink gravel road that led from the city gates. It was now late evening, and by the light of the sinking sun, the castle might have been built of burning bronze. Slowly, the figures of Indigo and Lorenzo, who were still standing and waving at the iron gates, were swallowed up by the blue twilight, until at last they disappeared altogether. The pink gravel road gave way to a furrowed mud-track. The sun had gone. The wheels of the caravan squealed and thudded through filthy puddles upon which the first frost was forming, drab rain clouds swept over the moon, and from the stubble of a harvest field an owl rose on dank wings, screeching mournfully. The Circus was on the road once more.
     
    ****
     
    A day or two later, they came to the crossroads.
    “Which road do we take, Bacchus?” asked Hero.
    Mr. Bacchus waved his stick around his head melodramatically.
    “Does it matter?” he exploded, leaves spiraling through the air. “Does the vine ask where the sun is summoning it to? Why, there are towns everywhere, my boy! To the North! To the East! To the West! To the South! And everyone who lives loves the Circus. Who could resist it? The lights! The music! The magic! The spectacle! Oh we shall go where e’er the road leads, my boy! Now voyager, seek thou forth and find!”
    “But there are three roads to choose from,” said Hero. “Which one shall we take?”
    “Why not ask the man sitting on the road side?” suggested Ophelia.
    “Why not?” said Mr. Bacchus. “A gentleman of the road, no doubt, like me. A traveller on life’s thoroughfares, and familiar with the area.”
    On the grass, in the shade of a wind-crippled hawthorn bush, sat an old man with a flea-ridden mongrel asleep beside him.
    “Excuse me,” said Ophelia, climbing down from the caravan, “but could you possibly tell us where these roads lead?”
    The old man got up slowly and grimaced.
    “Ah!” he said. “That is a question a lot of people ask. Now to the left many say lay the Galapagos, and the road straight ahead—that’s said to lead to Glastonbury. The road to the right, however, is a mystery.”
    “Ah, the Mysteries!” said Mr. Bacchus wistfully. “Tell us more.”
    “Well, sir, nobody is sure where the road leads,” said the old man.
    “Nobody?” said Ophelia.
    “Except as it happens, myself,” replied the old man, with a careful glance behind him, as if he might be overheard. “I know where the road leads because when I was seventeen, I followed it.”
    “And where does it lead, sir?” asked Mr. Bacchus.
    “To the strange and wonderful country, beyond the Himalayas where the Yeti sing, to glorious Cathay.”
    “Cathay?” said Malachi cynically. “The place is a myth.”
    “Oh no, wyrm,” replied the old man. “There is such a country, and stranger it is than all the myths that are told of it. It lies in Asia the Deep, and there rules a Khan called Kublai, who is the grandchild of the conqueror Genghis Khan, he who overcame Prester John, and he lives in a magnificent palace – nay, city – nay, world – called Xanadu.”
    “Really?” said Bacchus, his eyes widening. “And do you think that this Khan would enjoy a Circus?”
    “I’m sure he would,” replied the old man nodding. “For he is a highly civilized Khan, and they have all too few visitors in Xanadu these days to delight him, as it is inaccessible to all but the most fanciful.”
    “Then we shall go to Cathay,” announced Mr. Bacchus. “And entertain this Khan called Kublai. How far is it along the road? Beyond Dogger Bank? Beyond Lincoln?”
    “Beyond the Greater Magellanic Cloud, it seems,” said the old man. “But you will reach there eventually,” and having spoken, he sat down again to stroke his flea-ridden