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Delilah followed the trail of manure through town until eventually she came across The Ringmaster’s horse, swishing flies away from its stinking arse, out the front of a tiny cottage with enormous windows and a thatched roof. The gate, which led to a small courtyard, had been left ajar. It might have been from the bottom hinge, which protruded at an odd angle, looking as if it had suffered a dozen kicks too many over the years; or it might have been from any of the half-deflated balloons which filled the courtyard, making it almost impossible to sneak past, and of which were now spilling out of the gate, one by one, onto the street and being blown along by the morning breeze.
Delilah’s heart raced, and a dry and irking lump grew in the back of her throat. There was conflict in her head, between the conspiracy and treason that she believed were occurring and were absolutely true, and of which was most probably her delusion; and of what the norms of love - commitment, honour, and trust - would aspire her to believing, of which were no doubt, just as stark raving mad.
She stood by the door, wanting, but unable to enter.
She stood hearing, wanting, but unable to listen.
“Damn him,” she thought, but she didn’t mean it. “Damn him to hell.”
Her fingers trembled as they curled around the edge of the door, slowly creeping it open. But her arms were strong. They could tear off a horse’s hind legs, were it caught in some hideous trap or were her hunger sufficient enough. They were strong arms indeed, and they anchored the creeping door in a way that her fingers could not, ensuring that it didn’t creak or squeal as inch by inch, she pressed the door aside.
She could see into the hallway now. The Ringmaster’s jacket was on the floor, and she knew what that meant. He was always so careful with his garments, except when swept up by the tide of passion. Already, Delilah’s blood was boiling. And the small lump in her throat, it had now grown to the size of a hefty tumour. She couldn’t breathe, and it hurt to swallow.
She couldn’t see past the jacket, but she imagined, in how fast her lover undressed, that his pants and his underwear couldn’t be more than a foot away, and he himself, would be in the closest room that offered him a stack of pillows, a handrail, and a mirror, to watch himself cum.
The thought of him fucking that woman made her gag. She couldn’t vomit, though, she couldn’t even pass a single breath over the dried lump in that back of her throat, which now felt as if she had swallowed and was choking on an obese baby’s fist.
Then came the absurd rattling; like a tin can, filled with little nails and rolling down a flight of stairs. Delilah jumped in her bones. She swallowed her tumour and spun around instantly, her shushing finger already pressed against her lips.
“Shut up,” she screamed, through a delirious whisper.
She was still so far away; it was hard to read her expression. Beards did that to people. They hid all the dots and dimples, and the creaks and lines on people’s faces, so you couldn’t really tell what they were saying truthfully, and so you had to rely on their words, even if most of the time, the things they said were opposite of what they felt or thought was true.
People lied a lot, sometimes for their own benefit, and more often than not, so as not to hurt someone else. It’s what people did. They lied every time they opened their mouths. They lied all the time. They lied when they said what they wanted, and when they said that nothing was wrong. They lied when they said what they did, and they lied when they said what they saw. And they lied, every time that they gave their opinion about something, especially if it was to someone that they liked. People just lied a lot. But you could always tell, on their faces especially, what they really meant; whether something was really the matter, or whether that trick, or story or poem, was really as good as they said it was, or whether they were just being kind.
You could never tell, though when someone wore a beard. The truths on their faces were hidden, and you never knew what they really meant, or how they really felt. They looked strong, mean and brave, and it definitely made you think that they were, but most of the time, if not all the time, they were just really scared or insecure, and their beards gave them the muscle, charm, and intellect, that they didn’t actually have. And worse was that you had to take everything they said as a truth, even though, people never told the truth.
Delilah was the type of person that was impossible to trust, even without a beard. She could probably tell you she wasn’t there, even if she was standing in front of you, and you’d probably believe her; not because she was a good story-teller or anything, but because you were scared to death of the things she would do to you if you said that she wasn’t.
Delilah didn’t need a beard, not like most people did. She had one, though. And she wore it like it was the best thing in the world; as if it were the one thing that everybody wanted, but couldn’t have - which of course it was. She didn’t need a beard. She had nothing to hide. Her face was like stone. And her smiles and smirks, and condescending glares, they were the inveterate marks of erosion, like the imprints of the heels of a hundred thousand hikers, on a scenic mountain trail. She had no feelings or nerves beneath her skin, nothing that would give her away. And she may or may not have had a heart, but if she did, it no doubt once belonged to some fanged or disease laden beast, like a tick or a flea, or a bout of smallpox.
And she was still so far away, so The Young Cripple couldn’t see the mean look in Delilah’s eyes, and she couldn’t hear too, the sound of desperation in her maniacal shushing. So, she continued, as she had, rushing along the cobbled road, trying to catch up as best as she could. It was so difficult, though, in the contraption that bound her legs. On an even and flat path, it was already a magnificent challenge to propel herself forward, but on such a rickety and jagged path as this, staying upright was only as much of a burden as was moving in a straight line, and maintaining some kind of control, so as not to sound or look like a garbage can, rolling off the side of a cliff.
The Young Cripple raced forwards, clamping her legs as she went along, shouting out to Delilah, who was visible now, crouched beside the door of an old cottage, with grey balloons, streamers, and confetti, filling the space around her.
“Did you find him?” she shouted elatedly, almost tripping over a pebble.
“Shut up,” returned Delilah, in her hoarse whisper. “Shut! Up!”
“What?” shouted The Young Cripple. “Whatchya say?”
Delilah pleaded with her face for the girl to shut the hell up, and to come if she must, but to please, please, please be oh so quiet! Silly, though, for her to forget that, like a self-loathing, joyless and self-murdering comic at the end of their tether, behind her beard, her indigent and begging expression would go unseen, and unread.
Delilah thought for a second to run and cover the stupid girl’s mouth; to stuff it with a dozen balloons, but it was too late. The door swung open and Delilah fell flat on her face, scraping her chin.
“What are you doing here?” shouted The Ringmaster toward The Young Cripple, who had just reached the old cottage. “Who told you to follow me? And where is Delilah?” he shouted.
“Here, my love,” she said, the weakest and most feeble manner The Young Cripple had ever heard her speak. “I am here,” she said, lifting her dainty right hand. “I’ve fallen.”
The Ringmaster looked down at his feet and he saw his bearded whore, curled in a ball, like a frightened or trodden on worm.
“What have you gone and done, my dear,” he said, throwing himself down to pick her up in his arms, and steady her back on her feet. “You’re bleeding, Delilah. Did you know you’re bleeding?”
His concern was obvious.
“I cut myself,” she said, looking her lover in the eyes. “On Occam’s razor,” she said, in a whisper to herself.
“Are you fine?” he asked, sternly. “Are you of sound mind and body?” he asked, cupping her enormous breasts with one hand and stroking her beard with the other.
The Ringmaster had a way with women,
especially Delilah.
“I’m fine,” she said, thinking of the other nine whores in how a dog might think of, the sting of its last whipping, as it fought the temptation to steal one more sock.
The temptation for Delilah was to say ‘No’. It was to tell him the truth that everything was not ok; that the world was not flat, and that stars were not really made of bubbles. She was not of sound mind, and her body, it had gone untouched long enough for dust to settle, in the lone places where her delicate and needy fingers had not touched.
It was love that had her feeling this way.
“I’m fine,” she reiterated. “The girl wandered off. I went where I thought she might be, and I followed her here. I am so sorry, my love. This was not a jealous act, I assure you. I assumed the child would make her way here,” she said, resting her face gently on his bulging chest, and ever so lightly, smelling the skin beneath his shirt for the perfume, or the perspired sex of another woman.
“It’s good that you came,” said The Ringmaster. “We have to transport this poor woman back to the encampment. She is terribly ill, and I fret at the thought of leaving her here alone.”
“My love,” said Delilah, rubbing her beard against her lover’s fat cheeks like an affectionate, and invidious cat. “We have hardly the space or the conditions to provide sufficient care. We have barely enough food for our own troupe, let alone a carry-on.”
The Ringmaster kissed Delilah on her lips and then nuzzled his face in her thick beard. “I promise,” he said, “this will not be like before. I’m a changed man. And you’re my number one. Always have been. Always will be. My number one,” he said, kissing her once more. “Now come along, we haven’t all day.”
The Ringmaster prepared his horse while Delilah and The Young Cripple made their way through the mess of balloons and streamers that covered the hallway, and the entirety of the living room floor.
In the far corner of the living room lay a massive, crumpled sheet of butcher’s paper that had obviously spelled out the point of this celebration; the word ‘Happy’ catching The Young Cripple’s attention. It probably hanged at some point, in the centre of the living room, or on the wall, along the hallway. But now, it laid scrunched up in the corner beside the television, with its message absconded behind thick stains of blood, vomit, and faeces.
The two covered their mouths as they walked down the hallway towards the master bedroom. The smell was rife with decay. The Young Cripple held her breath as long as she could, but it was only made worse when she let go, and then had to gasp for air. Neither had smelt anything like this before. And both had seen, in their lives, a great deal of death.
In the master bedroom, The Grieving Mother lay on her bed, curled on her side like a foetus. She shivered uncontrollably, and as her teeth nattered and ground away, she muttered something that neither Delilah nor The Young Cripple could understand.
“You take her legs,” said Delilah.
The Young Cripple pulled away the sheet that covered the woman’s body. She was dressed only in a poorly fitted Charmeuse, which immediately caught the spurned and jealous rage of Delilah, until she saw the brown and red stains, running down the inside of the woman’s legs.
“Not even he is that kinky,” she thought.
Delilah took the woman’s hands and dragged her body off the bed, keeping her head and little else, from thumping on the floor. The Young Cripple, though, stared at the woman’s ankles with a measure of fear and disgust.
“Just do it. Don’t think about it.”
The Young Cripple took the woman by the ankles. Her hands slipped at first. The feeling alone, and sloppy sound that followed in its wake made the young girl choke and then gag. But she got a firm hold, and they dragged the woman along the room and out into the hallway. As they were about to load her out into the courtyard and onto The Ringmaster’s horse, The Young Cripple eyed a document sitting on a stand near the front door. It was a document with their sigil. She nudged Delilah and noted what she saw.
“What is it?” she asked.
Delilah took the document and flipped through several pages. It wasn’t anything that the troupe was equipped with. It wasn’t one or any of the stories that The Young Cripple had written. This was seven pages, with the first two being a series of incantations, and spells. The other pages were questions, just that, questions.
“Well?” asked The Young Cripple, curious.
Delilah’s focus was unbreakable. She remembered every one of these questions. She remembered how she had answered them too. She remembered having stared The Ringmaster eye to eye when he asked her these questions, on the first night that they met. She remembered too, how almost immediately, she was besotted, and beside herself; how, even before the last question had been asked, she was entirely his. She was in love.
She turned page after page and read question after question, mumbling and mouthing the words, before returning to the first question again and again. She must have read the document fifty times before she eventually set it down
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said Delilah, rolling up the document and tucking it in her garter.
Normally her lies and truths were impossible to tell apart, but for the first time, it was blatantly obvious that she meant the contrary. Not even her beard could hide the way she felt. The Young Cripple felt sad. Even though the whore was a complete bitch, it was hard feeling someone else’s sadness, and not feeling sad yourself.
The Young Cripple went to hug Delilah, as she would a lost calf. She didn’t know what to say, or what words would suffice. Her every instinct, though, had her wanting to reach out and hug the bearded whore and to squeeze the sadness right out of her, like a pimple or an infected blister.
“It’s ok,” said The Young Cripple, wrapping her arms around Delilah’s legs.
“Fuck off,” said Delilah, kicking her feet from under her.
The Young Cripple fell to the ground in a heap.
“What’s going on back there?” shouted The Ringmaster, impatiently.
“The girl tripped, my love. Get up,” she said, hissing at The Young Cripple.
“We haven’t all day,” said The Ringmaster, squirming in his saddle, loosening the bind and pressure on his crotch. “Take the poor woman on your horse. I’ll meet you back at camp. Don’t dilly daddle.”
“My love…”
Delilah wanted to hate him, she did, and she had every reason, but she couldn’t. She wanted to throw a handful of pebbles, a mound of dirt, a heavy stone, or a glass vase in his direction. She wanted to shout and curse and hurl a tirade of insult and abuse. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.
And she wanted to beat this poor woman to death - to stop her incessant moaning. She wanted to bruise her and burn her and bury her so far beneath the earth that not even the maggots and worms would be able to find her. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.
“Hurry up and give me a hand,” she cursed at The Young Cripple. “Get her on this goddamn horse.”
“But you’ll get all this yuck all over your….”
“Shut up! Have faith in Master. Have faith in his love. He knows what is right, and what is best said and done for all of us. His way is divine,” she said, as she hurled the poor woman’s shivering and near naked body over the horse’s hind.
Delilah walked her horse through town with the sick woman shivering and writhing on the saddle. She wore a resplendent and noble look; and the rest of the troupe, especially the other whores, they all noticed this, and they wished they were endowed with the same. As they made their way back into camp, the entire time, The Young Cripple eyed the bulge in Delilah’s garter belt, wondering mischievously, what was on that paper, and how she could get her hands on it.
“What the devil was it,” she thought, “which had made the horrible bitch actually feel?”