One
The carnival came in the night and no one knew about it before it was too late.
Marie was the first to notice their arrival in the strange grey half-light before dawn. She awoke from a night of wild and troubled dreams, her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She slipped from beneath the covers and quietly made her way to the front room of the house, her bare feet chill against the rough stone floor.
The house was cold. It was impossible to retain any kind of warmth within its walls. Her breath visible in the air as she looked out of the window. Dawn was close; to the east there was a dull metal glow in the air signalling its approach, but the night hung on tight. In the field hard by their cottage, sheep lay as silent still clouds. Her eyes followed the line of the dry-stone wall marking the limits of their property, and it was then that she noticed that everything had changed in the night.
Down in the hollow of the hill, in the large field running alongside the river, a number of covered wagons were drawn up into a broad circle. She could see figures, deeper shadows against the dark, moving back and forth between them. At first, she doubted the evidence of her own eyes. The village was far too small to attract any kind of entertainment. The last time she had seen a circus was when she had travelled the eight miles to York, nearly twenty years before, with her sister. She remembered her parent's reaction on their return. At the time she had thought it excessive. This was before her marriage to William, when she still strained at the confines of the village.
It was still difficult to remember the wonders she had seen that day without feeling a little sad, although she quickly chastised herself for her ingratitude. The life she had now was good enough. William was kind and honest, a good worker. She could have done worse. She had a lot to be thankful for.
She felt strange as she watched those distant dark figures get to work. A fire leapt up suddenly, bright enough to illuminate the circle of figures around it. They all had long dark hair, men as well as women. The leaping fire cast long dancing shadows on the ground, stretching out the dancer's arms and grasping hands. Voices carried on the still night air and she heard faint singing, mournful and low. She felt an ache in her chest just listening to it. She started as a long mournful cry rose into the air. Standing there, barefoot, and still in her nightshift, she shivered.
She stayed at the window until the grey sky gradually warmed to a burnt orange as the night finally released its grasp, slipping away. Her husband, William, barely noticed his wife as he left the house. He would return later for his breakfast after he had seen to the animals. When her daughter, eighteen years of age and rubbing sleep from her eyes, crept downstairs nearly half an hour later, she discovered her mother still standing by the window, listening intently, a strange distant look in her pale blue eyes.
The news of the carnival's arrival quickly spread throughout the village. Gossip and speculation was rife. Marie spent the morning cleaning the house. She was always aware of the raised tents visible through the window although she was careful not to look. She was adamant she would not be distracted. She spoke briefly to Edith, her garrulous next-door neighbour, but had quickly retreated back indoors, beaten into submission by the woman's speculations. The carnival workers were obviously escaped criminals, Edith claimed, roaming the countryside looking for victims.
"You mark my words," Edith said, while she stood idly on her front porch as if she had no home to keep, "we'll wake up tomorrow to find everything not nailed down in the back of their wagons on their way to Wales." Marie smiled, nodded silently, then shut the door.
She was curious about the new arrivals, of course, the days blurred together in a smear of grey, so any sudden flash of colour was bound to tug at your attention, but there was no point in idling the day away in silly speculation. People would go to the show, she had no doubt, and the next day they would wake up to the same life only with less pennies in their pocket. Her mother had always said, "a fool and their money are soon parted." Marie hadn't listened at the time, of course, but she saw now it was a simple statement of fact.
In the afternoon she had reason to visit the local shop. This was the first time she noticed the posters pasted to the village hall advertising the showing, for one night only, for free. She stopped at that. Nothing was free. Anyone claiming otherwise was selling something. But there it was, in lurid print across a picture of various wild jungle animals: "WELCOME TO THE CARNIVAL OF NIGHT! EXPERIENCE MAGIC, WONDERS AND MYSTERIES. NO PURCHASE NECESSARY. ENTRANCE FREE."
She snorted as she looked at it. Above the words a whole bestiary of beasts clawed out through the paper to get at her. A dark panther tore through printed words with claws sharpened to gleaming points. There was a leopard, a snake and, at the edge of the picture, a lone wolf stared out. Above them the grinning face of a man loomed. It certainly made an impression, she had to admit. There would be people fooled by it, of that, she was sure.
Returning home, she spotted her daughter, Alice, standing by the front gate. She was talking over the gate with a man Marie did not immediately recognise. The knot in her stomach twisted when she saw the way her daughter's face darkened at her approach: She had been caught out. Before she reached the couple the man put on a ridiculously tall hat and, with rather a theatrical tap to its top with his long fingers, turned and strode away down the hill. Any doubts Marie had about the man's identity resolved themselves when she saw that hat: too showy, too grand. Too, there was only one word for it, theatrical. She was sure that man owned the same countenance that she had seen leering out from the circus advertisement.
By the time Marie reached the gate her daughter was busy with the washing, showing an industry that did not fool Marie for a second.
"What was it he wanted?" she asked.
Her daughter answered without meeting her gaze. "Wanted?"
Marie felt her irritation rise. "The man, the travelling man from the circus. I saw him talking to you. What was it that he wanted?"
Alice hesitated before answering. Then, straightening and throwing her long blonde hair away from her face, she met her mother's gaze.
"He was inviting me to the show tonight. It's free, they need to practise. And everyone's going, he said so." This last was said after Alice noticed her mother's expression harden.
"There's nothing free in this world, Alice, you should know better than that," said Marie. "They just want to get you all under the cover of that there tent and then, you mark my words, then they'll come for your purse, or rather mine and your father's."
