After The Gold Rush

To Elizabeth,

my dear little swallow

The Clown and The Knight

In all the revelries in all the cities celebrating Queen Elizabeth’s Day, the most festive occasion in all the still-reigning British Empire, there were none less happy, in all irony, than the clown who walked alone. Piebald.

The celebrations raged well into the night, filling the city square with their colorful costumes, bright banners, and spirited beverages. A distant observer might notice shades of the medieval, Roaring 20s, Tomorrowland, atompunk futurism. But that speaks not only to this party on this night, but indeed the timeless country of this entire story, a legend without border of any conventional kingdom, a fable outside of time.

Among pixies and Studio 54 rejects, partygoers clad as astronauts and the Empress of Dragons, Piebald’s jester costume, his last material link to his own days in court, now worn and faded, was hardly noticed as he slunk by, invisible. He didn’t interact with the other people, and they didn’t even know he was there. He preferred it that way. It was a rare anonymity of costumed crowds the eternal outcast cherished, when he had it. Yet still, for what he knew, his memories of the lady enshrined, this was also one of his most melancholy nights of a year full of them.

He walked through the stone underpass of a bridge. Before him, a full moon shined on the dark water. The sound of church bells rung in the background, but otherwise, the night was silent. The shadowy figure who was Piebald walked through the tunnel, out of the darkness, into the moonlight.

Piebald fell to his knees by the lake. Drank some of its cold water. Wiped the make-up off his face. Befitting his name, he was piebald, splotches of dark and white skin.

Around the corner, sharing a couple of bottles and various anecdotes, came a group of five violent young punks, wearing party hats (QUEEN ELIZABETH’S DAY!) and Hawaiian leis.

That wasn’t all though, yeah grumbled the first, a stout lad of no more than twenty-two.

What’d you do then, Mick? his shorter friend asked eagerly.

Well, I couldn’t just let him get away with it, could I? That was my éclair, bruv!

Got any more of that Wisk left? belched the tallest of the five in question.

The bottle was passed. Wisk brand vodka, the smiling chrome bald face of Philip Wisk adorning the bottle encouraging the drinker to do what they will.

So, what’d you do? the short one pressed for answers.

So, I says to him, Queen’s Day or not, lad, you’re still setting yourself up for an arsekicking!

This was met with cheers and approval from his friend, but another, unsolicited response from elsewhere.

Piebald had been listening- they were very loud, after all, and he was right there- and he could not stop himself from speaking up.

That’s a missed opportunity, he muttered out, matter-of-fact.

The punks turned and saw the stranger squatting by the water. They laughed scornfully. All except Mick, who did not like being interrupted or corrected.

Was I talking to you, clown?

Piebald shook his head submissively.

Sorry, I just... he began meekly, what you said.

He looked away, averting his eyes.

Mick approached, sneering.

No, what was wrong with what I said, funny man? Cause it sure weren’t idle words, as you’ll soon see!

Piebald looked at the angry young man. He knew this was a mistake, and he knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But here goes.

It being Queen Elizabeth’s Day and all, you should have said ‘a royal arsekicking’.

After a moment, the guys all laughed. Even Mick grinned.

But not out of humor.

Well, you are a funny man.

Thank you, Piebald answered quietly while preparing to shuffle away.

But the punk grabbed his arm.

But it’s not midnight yet, friend, he seethed, There’s still plenty of time to put your theory to the test.

Please... Piebald started to plea, impotently, knowing what was next.

Here’s that royal arsekicking!

He punched Piebald in the jaw, flattening him out onto the ground. Then he kicked him in the stomach. The other guys joined in, wailing on the clown.

Stop. Please. Piebald grunted between kicks to his rib.

Use the bottle, Mick! The tallest cheered.

Mick took a massive swig of the liquor, then smashed the bottle over Piebald’s head.

I’ll cut your throat, clown! he roared.

The other guys held Piebald up while Mick raised the shard to his throat. In the dark of the night and fury of their violence, they did not take notice of the blood leaking from the gash on his forehead. That rather than red, it was gold, and glowing, just a little bit.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

The punks turned. A voice was booming from the shadows.

Who the...? Mick asked no one in particular, startled and already a bit shaken by the intrusion.

A walking shadow emerged from the tunnel. It was a man fully clad in a suit of black iron armor. Yet this was no classical knight’s ensemble. It looked closer to a bondage gimp suit, only black iron instead of metal. The mask resembled a winter combat mask, black of course. Only his blue eyes were visible, soulful, pensive, suggesting a pain yet unspoken.

Put the clown down, Black Iron commanded.

Is everyone in a costume today? Mick asked, annoyed.

Well, they are, his short friend pointed out, It’s Queen Elizabeth’s Day.

Nobody likes a wise aleck, Hal, he grunted, keeping his eyes on the intruder.

This isn’t a costume. Black Iron stared him down. Now let him go.

Mick got closer to the stranger, holding his shard of glass threateningly.

Oh, so you’re a real knight, then? Where’s your horse, sire? Where’s your sword.

Don’t need one, Black Iron answered, undeterred.

I’m killing you next, Mick snarled. Or are you gonna take us all?

If I have to. Last warning.

The fifth punk was tired of the back and forth. Oh, enough of this! he cried. He threw the other bottle at Black Iron.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Black Iron caught the bottle smashing it to shards in his fist, and in one fluid motion punched Mick across the face, sending him to the ground and in need of some facial reconstruction.

MY FACE! Mick shrieked, blood running down from his brow to his chin, HE GOT MY FACE!

The other punks dropped Piebald and rushed Black Iron.

Hal, the short one, threw a wild, sloppy punch at Black Iron. Black Iron stepped aside and neck chopped him. With that iron hand, it sent him down to the ground.

The fifth pun came charging at Black Iron. Black Iron grabbed him by the elbows and twirled him around, knocking over the third in the process. Black Iron threw the fifth punk down to the ground, right on top of the third.

Black Iron stomped down on the fifth punk’s back. Hard.

Don’t get up, he barked harshly, and was promptly obeyed.

While his back was turned, the fourth punk had taken the opportunity to run up behind him with his knife drawn.

The punk tried to jab his knife into the back of Black Iron’s neck but it didn’t make a dent.

Black Iron turned to the now freaked-out Punk #4 and backhanded him roughly, knocking some teeth out and sending him flying.

Hal slowly got to his feet, rubbing his neck.

Lousy knight, he muttered, you’re gonna...

Black Iron stomped on the third punk’s hand as he walked over to the second. He ignored the wails and stared Hal down.

Hal raised his arms in surrender, backing up.

Black Iron pointed out into the night. Get out.

Hal nodded, utterly defeated, and he helped the fourth punk up. The other guys agreed. They went running off, including Mick, holding his bleeding face and unable to think of a taunt to flee with.

Black Iron watched them go, taking no satisfaction in the defeat.

Then he turned to Piebald, standing there in silent appreciation.

You’re alright, clown?

Yes, thank you.

What happened to your face?

My face?

Black Iron took a step closer, examining the other men in more detail.

I was minding my own concerns when I saw them smash that bottle on your head. I come over to save your life, I see this great big gash on your forehead. By way of illustration, he traced his finger along his own forehead, which of course was impenetrable black iron. And now it’s gone.

Indeed, all of Piebald’s wounds were no more. Piebald turned away from him, self-conscious.

You didn’t save my life, he said quietly. But I thank you all the same.

Strong words from a clown, Black Iron nearly scoffed. You would have taken them all on your own?

No, I wouldn’t have, Piebald admitted quietly, just wanting to get away.

But Black Iron caught up with his shuffle.

Hold now, stranger. Such puzzling words demand an explanation.

The explanation would be a story.

Perhaps you owe me a story, the knight answered the clown, his curiosity already piqued, I stopped your fight, even if I didn’t save your life.

Piebald sighed. He didn’t like to explain himself, but he could scarcely turn down a request when pressed.

It is a long story.

My friend, Black Iron spread his arms, I have nothing but time. He wrapped his arm around Piebald and pointed down the lake. Yonder is my camp for the night. I have an extra blanket, and the sand is soft. You may join me, while we regale each other by the fire. He shrugged. Unless you have other places to be.

Piebald was hesitant but a little touched. And as this kind stranger might discover his identity soon enough anyway, it may as well be in fraternal quarters.

No, nowhere else. I’ll tell you my story. They started to walk together. It is good to have a friend.

Piebald

1.

I was born...some years ago, as part of a great, traveling circus. A grand show in the medieval tradition, of middle renown with plenty of performers and animals. The kids loved it. Everyone loved it.

Lambert, the older juggler, controlled the crowd’s attention as he twirled and rolled his pins, all while raiding on a unicycle. His mellifluous voice addressed them.

Behold-

How many? Black Iron interrupted.

It was a modest campsite at lakeside. Two logs facing each other with the fire ring between them.

Piebald followed Black Iron out of the woods, each holding an armful of sticks.

Piebald stopped, not liking the question.

What?

How many years was it? Black Iron asked, setting up the fire. How old are you?

Piebald hesitated. It was not that he found the question rude. And he could understand. The troubled clown looked anywhere between thirty and forty, but in truth he was much older. But the answer would only invite more questions.

He simply answered,

I...I don’t know.

Much to Black Iron’s curiosity.

As I said, it was a great and renown old circus, and my grandfather was one of the star attractions.

Behold... Lambert would address his loving audience, ...for as the stars and celestial spheres twirl their paths and dances across the heavens, so too see how these balls fly in their predestined motions, erstwhile or counterclockwise, all in the grasp and schemes of eye, the juggler of jugglers, Lambert The Lightfooted!

There were cheers, but a little bit of obnoxious jeering and hooting as well.

The ease and skill with which these pins swim through my sky in their dance going ever on. So also you’ll note my tender feet and eternal wheel. The dance goes on and on.

A heckler was intent on making his mark.

I bet I can stop that dance!

The Heckler hurled an apple right at Lambert. But Lambert was able to catch that apple and take a bite out of it without missing a stride.

The whole audience cheered. Even the Heckler was impressed.

Ah ha! Lambert laughed. For you see it is true! Nothing can break the concentration of Lambert the Lightfooted!

But from across the field came the news that would. Petey, a large, frantic clown, came crying.

Lambert! Lambert, it’s happening! He reached the juggler. She’s ready!

Pleased as punch, Lambert dropped his pins and jumped off. This got some amusement from the crowd, but he was too happy.

A small group of carnies were gathered around the bed in Maria’s trailer, where Maria herself, a rosy-cheeked young woman, lay in childbirth. A cross hung above her head.

You’re crowning, alright, the horse trainer, now and then a human’s midwife, assured her.

Petey and Lambert burst in.

Maria! Lambert exclaimed, happy to be here to witness it.

Maria raised her arms weakly to greet her father.

Papa!

She wanted to hold your hand, the horse trainer informed him.

Of course, my girl. He knelt by his daughter’s side.

Papa, Papa, he’s almost here. She grabbed his hand nervously, I’m scared.

Nothing to be scared of, my child. His eyes were wet with joy and wonder. My woman. You will be a wonderful mother.

So you say, came an unpleasant voice from a drafty door.

The trailer turned to look at Madame Bone, the wizened woman standing at the entrance.

For a moment, she cackled mysteriously.

Maria was in the process of delivering in this minute, but Lambert was distracted by Madame Bone, who he was outraged to see.

Oh no! He roared. Get that witch out of here! She will not curse my grandchild!

The horse trainer pulled the baby out.

Oh, but I only see the curses, Madame Bone replied with an innocent affectation, gaining a wide berth as she danced into the trailer.

It’s out! the horse trainer called about the rising drama, He’s out!

(And, you may guess, this is where I enter the story.)

Petey tried to stop the intruder, while keeping distance, afraid as he was.

They don’t want you in here, Madame Bone.

Maria tried to catch her breath.

Let me see. Let me see my baby.

He’s a boy, the horse trainer told her.

Lambert kissed us both.

A beautiful boy, he said, eyes twinkling.

Maria examined her baby. I had birthmarks. Splotches of dark skin across my body here and there. Or splotches of white skin across my dark skin. I’ve never been sure. I don’t remember what my mother looked like and I never knew who my father was.

His skin, she said curiously, but not offput, It’s...

The midwife was a compassionate woman who soon eased her cares.

In a foal, we call that ‘piebald’, she explained. There’s nothing wrong with it.

My mother was weakened, but happy.

Piebald, she rolled the world around in her mouth. I love that word...Papa, may I call him that?

He’s your baby, my dear, the proud grandfather answered, his eyes twinkling.

Piebald, is it? the black iron knight asked. It was hard to tell with such a cold, metal visage, but perhaps he was smiling at the name.

Yes, I am Piebald.

And a fine name it is. It suits you.

And what do I call you, sir knight?

His friend got reflective. Guilty.

I am no knight. Not anymore. I go by ‘Black Iron’, you know. He gestured to his suit. If you could call me friend, there’d be no greater honorific.

What friends and family my mother did have gathered around me.

Let us say a prayer, Lambert said, and they bowed their heads as he lead, Dear Lord and Savior, author of all things and watcher of all, watch over us now, and bless your newest miracle, bless young...

Piebald, Maria made it official.

Bless little Piebald.

A fine name for a clown, Petey interjected, should he ever want to fill my big shoes.

Petey, she said a foal, Lambert smirked jollily, not an elephant!

They all laughed, especially Petey.

But Madame Bone had snuck her way over to the bed and snatched me away. She examined me. Lambert jumped up in a fury.

Unhand that baby, witch!

Calm yourself, juggler, I only wish to look.

Lambert cautiously walked towards her, holding his hands out to take me. He was stone cold angry at Madame Bone, but he didn’t want her to drop me while upset.

I don’t want to hear what you think his beautiful skin means. Give him back, Bone.

Oh, the splotches mean nothing.

Please, Lambert seethed.

But this boy...has the longest lifeline I’ve ever seen. It just goes on, and on, and... She gently handed me back to my grandfather. Till the sea boils and the stars fall from the sky, that boy shall walk this Earth.

After making her ominous prophecy, Madam Bone crossed to the exit. But she stopped at the door.

Such a long life line...Must have taken his mother’s.

She said this cruelly, then left.

Lambert and the other looked back to my mother, who was no longer breathing.

Maria? my grandfather gasped, already near a panic, Maria, my girl?

The midwife held her hand, then turned to him and shook her head.

Lambert wept, looking from his dead daughter to his living grandson.

Piebald stopped in his story.

I am sorry, his friend offered words of condolence. Truly.

I never knew her, his guest answered quietly.

Black Iron sipped from a flagon of wine and declared, Every child deserves his mother and his father. That is the way The Lord intends it.

He offered the wine to Piebald, who took a sip and stared into the fire.

I had my grandfather.

2.

The circus folk, including Madame Bone and Huss, the shrewd and showy manager, lay of their own to rest in a Potter’s Field.

My grandfather cradled me.

I will tell you everything about her, he whispered solemnly, It will be as if you know, because she watches over you still. She’s in God’s hands. And you, little Piebald, are in mine.

Though a babe, I looked into the grave where my mother was, then to Heaven and God.

Then this infant looked across the way. Where Maria’s ethereal form, her cheeks still wet with tears as she looks at the son she will never raise, stood next to DEATH himself, clad in black. Death tilted its head for a moment, looking at me curiously, both because I could see him, and for other reasons. Death then led Maria away, and they faded.

I grew up as circus folk. We were one big family. First as a babe, then as a tot, then as a child. I was raised by the whole circus family, and helped out when I could.

They taught me of the ways of God. I remember sitting with my grandfather in a makeshift chapel, just another flimsy tent, but this with a cross, this on Sunday, and now with lessons instead of showery.

But they also showed me even man may do wonders. Katrina, the tightrope walker, awed me even at a fragile and impressionable age. I remember her so delicately in white petticoats and gossamer tights, walking across a spider-string. She looked light enough to walk on air, and she did. She glided.

And I clapped as my grandfather juggled.

When I was five, I tried clumsily to walk the