The Madness of Circ Du Solei

The writing was on the wall the day the circus came to town. In fifteen foot high, pink neon letters, painted in a primative tribal style (not at all in tune with the rustic surroundings or sophistication of Canadian circus act, Circ du Solei) it spelt "trouble" with a capital 'T'. It was while noting the usage of this particular capital that Lapse Dingwall reared in terror at the sight of a mountain exploding from what used to be a building sight about a mile and a half out of town. He had seen some strange folk aound out that way for a while now; strutting Violins, bombastic cigars and unspoken elephants, painfully obvious to all; but this was different. "Mountains don't just come from nothing" Lapse exclaimed to St. Climactus,

"No" replied St. (Barry) Climactus, town hero, "they usually are the result of techtonic plates shifting over the course of millions of years, or perhaps the thawing of massive glaciers, but" his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper "can it be that either has transpired while we were at lunch?"

The Mayor strode to St. Climactus while the room rung with warm applause and said, pinning a meddle on him, "Well done, St. Climactus, you are our hero." Everyone cheered as St. Climactus acknowledged the appreciation with a wave of his hand and a nod of his head. Lapse re-read the word 'Trouble' anxiously. The new name of the town had been approved in order to increase tourism; no-one had used the words 'self-fulfilling prophecy' at that meeting, yet these words were echoing around Lapse's mind like a megaphone in a tin tunnel.

"Come everyone, let us visit the mountain" commanded St. Climactus and the whole town cried 'Hazaar!' and followed in his assured footsteps. Their walk was full of hope and adventure - there was a true sense of wonder in the air. As they passed under the shadow of the mountain the air grew colder; the confidence drained from their step and only st. Climactus maintained the light touch of optimism in his voice as he spoke easilly with the mayor and little Timmy Tylor. He was interupted by a cry;

"HALT!" Three Clowns faced them in the road "Who goes there?" They were Canadian.

Climactus stood with his hands on his hips, his feet spread broadly "It is I, Bartholemew Climactus. What do you know of the mountain?" he asked, taking control. The Clowns whispered in French, then one immitated Climactus' stance while another pushed him over. The third did a ramshakle handstand, falling into the Saint's prone impersonator, who then rasped a death rattle while the other two juggled Yorkshire Terriers. The message was clear enough - Circ du Solei had claimed the mountain for their own. The crowd was taken aback as Climactus stood forward to confront the clowns, only to be pushed into an impossibly small car that the clowns then followed him into.

Out from the car stepped the ringmaster with one hand cocked in his belt-buckle. He addressed the townspeople in a monstrous shout, his fist pumping the air with every other syllable:

"We are the creators of this mountain - we have the power to move worlds - we are superhuman in everyway, we are Circ du Solei" his voice ringing from the crags and caverns of the mountain, his face distorting in rage, his moustache becoming two thin rectangles above a thin lip. "Your hero will be punished, you will be put to work for this Circus and nation after nation will fall into our glorious Sun!"

As the crowd looked around they realised they were surounded by skinny but heavilly muscled girls, bouncing up and down on what looked like elm poles, held by large clowns. Timmy's dog barked and tried to run at one of the clowns, but a bouncing gymnast landed on it hard and the clowns cruelly hosed it with water from lapel flowers. Nobody laughed now; there was no escape for them and there is nothing funny about a wet dog.

Lapse Dingwall stood forward "You've gone mad with power! The mountain is for all of us; not just for your French-Canadian freakshow!" his panic was obvious, but his words were obscured by a howl from the mountain. The sky turned black, electicity licked the air and the earth shook like a train derailing, sending tiny gymnasts spawling and clowns commically colliding face to face as they tried to run in opposite directions. The part of earth the townspeople stood on was solid and steady, but Lapse ran to find his friend Climactus. He peered into the impossibly small car and saw nothing but a plastic seat, a primative steering wheel and a set of stick-on dials.

Lapse pulled away in disbelief, before swinging round to view the previously dominant facist oganisation of the Circ du Solei; gymnasts had become two dimensional, making them limitlessly flexible but invisible from all but one angle; clowns were incapable of performing the simplest task without utter, hopeless frustration (later many would die though grissly but hilarious 'misadventure', while others took jobs in the civil-sevice) and the Ringmaster sat panicing in an endless job interview: "What skills do you have?" his mysterious interlocutors challenged him, whilst he stuttered into eternity.

The townspeople retreated to Trouble where it was safe and they could build a statue for their departed St. Climactus. The mountain lay brooding in the night.