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THE VAMPIRE CLOWNS OF OLD POLAND

Part 1 - ARRIVAL by ICAM

Introduction

In 1241 of the passing Christian era, Poland was brought low.

Henry the Bearded lost his head at Legnica.

The princes of the Vistula died on the banks of the Kaczawa as the princes of the Dnieper had died on the Kalka eighteen years before.

The black magic of the Mongols spread like a cloud from their Tartar lair at Bakshishsarai.

Poland sickened.

Starry-eyed Teutons pushed their god forward into the spreading darkness.
And in the middle Poland burned quietly in the space left for it.

These were the times that the clowns rode the land.

Their black carriages gained a reputation which was to turn the townspeople against the gypsies; when they arrived a century later out of India.

Because the clowns came to take.

To rob bloodied Poland like a dead drunk.

Part One

I got myself turned out of the house. Into the snow. I'd been beaten nearly warm by Ojciec and Matka, so I liked the feeling of the cold.

I still had a little fight left in me so I sat in the wet ditch like the rebel I was; scowling. I laid my useless arm across my empty belly and snuggled in the mud. What with the dirt and the ditch I was hard to see from the road. But I could see everything.

First came a man like a hunter, on a horse with a cloak and a bugle. He rode back and forth, peering in windows. His horse skitted beneath him and I thought that they must both be very tired. He rode it unmercifully, back and forth, looking in the windows, in silence.

Then he blew a note on his metal trumpet. A flat baahh. Like a stupid lost sheep.

Then, down the road that nobody used anymore, that nobody much has used in my lifetime, down that potholed mud road came a team of horses; little ponies like the Khans, not big beasts like the crazy metal Germans. All with tack that would have been boiled for soup in my town; fat and tasty looking on those chubby little horses. Each one like a toy with little square biting teeth.

And behind the trotting meat bounced carts. Splendid carts of black wood, bouncing on chains slung between the high wheels. Each one driven by an off-duty clown.

Each painted face was pale and the paint thinly applied. I assumed that they would paint themselves again before the show, and had not bothered to wipe off the remains from the last town.

In my excitement my ditch felt warm, my arm numb, my mind blissful.

Carts and carriages passed me without notice. Until a young clown, perhaps only five years my elder dropped off the back of a cart with a thump. He walked like a cripple until he got the blood back into his legs.

In answer to an unheard question he barked and waved his arm. The carriages rolled on. This young clown came up to me and squatted on his hunkers. He had a tall hat that someone must once have been buried in. His face was painted white with black detail. He looked down into my eyes with the mournful expression clowns have.

I like clowns, it's either that or hate them.

I liked the challenging way he looked me in the eye, daring me to come out. I didn't mind that I could no longer see the painted sides of the black carts.

He looked hungrily into me eyes and again the unheard question came. This time he half turned with a savage expression and waved his arm angrily. His lip wrinkled and he looked as if he spat. I was very glad when he turned back to look at me.

It was so much easier with him there.

Easy to slip away, to give up the cold and the smell and the hunger.

To Be Continued… By ICAM, copyright 2008. All rights reserved.





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