A letter from Kaligar:

Isabella,

It has been ages since you last replied to one of my letters, but your lady Fallon assures me that you will answer this one. With that said, new Queen of Ellewyn, I am requesting the aid of your country, in its strongest and most sincere form, should this incident with the Dark Lady Sorena be brought to our mutual shores.

As you are aware—and have made an incessant habit of reminding us—Kaligar is a poor country and we are a simple people. Much of our land is untouched by human hands, and our people are too far removed, both geographically and socially, to be governed properly. We do not have the resources, nor the funds, nor the luxury of an organized militia to fight off an invasion. I have been promised protection in our city of Masiela, but I fear for the many tribal groups living outside these stone walls who would be defenseless against such an attack.

Our past, like the past that exists between our two great kingdoms, has been troubled—of this, I am sure you know. But now is the time to release those sour grievances. When Ellewyn has called for support, has Kaligar not always been the first to extend her hand? Now is the day for the hand of Ellewyn to come to our aid. Unite our kingdoms in this battle, and together we will show Sorena that we are sisters of blood and will never succumb to her barbaric ways. We will not see Adelais fall a second time.

If you cannot do this for me, Isabella, then do this for the people of your land. We both know you could use the public approval.

With deep concern,
Princess Erika

-------------------------

"Your Highness," a middle-aged woman said as she pushed through the oak doors of the throne room. "We have received another message from Kaligar."

The young girl on the throne looked up, her face brightened from what it must have looked like before. "Is it from Fallon? Oh, Rebecca—tell me she wrote back and has decided to forgo her stay in that dreadful place!"

"I'm sorry, Isabella. This message comes from Princess Erika."

Isabella sank back into her seat and began to pout. "Oh... Do with it what you want. Burn it, crumple it up, eat it with some crumpets and your afternoon tea—I don't care. Just don't read it to me."

"My dear," the older woman said, while maintaining a graceful composure. "On any other day, with any other letter, I would be all too happy to do as you request. But you appointed me to the position of a countess again for a reason—a good reason, mind you—because you know I am perfect for the job. We should all know our place. Such as you! You are a bright young lady and you simply have too much on your mind to handle the annoying squabbles that plague the common people."

"Ugh, I know. People can be simply irritating, the way they want me to solve their every problem, like I'm some kind of miracle-worker."

"Yes, it is disgraceful. However, this is where I come in! I listen to these peasants and I decide which ones are whining like simple children and which ones are truly worthy of your ear. I do this so you do not have to, and it allows you to tend to far more important matters here in the castle." She smiled up at the queen, who was barely half her age, and waited for permission to proceed.

Isabella pondered her words for a moment. "Well, that does save me a lot of time for myself... Does Erika want something from me?"

"She does, but—"

"Throw it away!"

"But this is something you may want to hear. The princess of Kaligar, Miss High Horse herself, is on her hands and knees and begging for your help."

"Oooh, I like begging when it comes from people-who-have-power-like-me-but-aren't-as-powerful-as-me-even-though-they-think-they-are form," Isabella said, clapping her hands. She was a queen of only twenty-three and had a face that revealed no signs of stress or discomfort from all the duties that one would expect to fall upon her shoulders. In fact, she looked rather carefree as she shifted about in her giant cushioned seat and leaned back into a wall of pillows.

Like the portrait behind her showed, she had thick brown hair that rained down from her crown in long, twisted curls, and she was wearing a bluish-green gown that flowed just as smoothly and flawlessly down her legs. Around her neck, she wore three or four pearl necklaces, and she would occasionally play with them as she talked.

"Okay," she said, wrapping her pinky finger around one of the strings of pearls. "Read it to me."

"Of course," Rebecca said. She held up a parchment that she had been carrying and put on her reading glasses.

Not two sentences into the letter, she was interrupted.

"No, no, no," Isabella said. The pearls rattled along with the shaking of her hand. "It's all wrong."

Rebecca looked up. "I'm sorry?"

"Your presentation—it's awful. Simply awful, Rebecca."

"I...was merely reading what she wrote."

"Yeah, but Erika is dull," the queen said. "She could put ghosts to sleep with the way she writes."

"Well, what would you have me do?"

"When Fallon reads me a letter, she acts it out."

Rebecca lowered the parchment. "You...wish me to play the part of Erika?"

"Yes, yes! That would be wonderful."

"Shall I stuff my breasts with watermelons then?"

"Um, no... It's a bit much to look the part. But you need to put some feeling into what you're reading. Make me care." She put her hands behind her head. "Fortunately for you, that shouldn't be too hard. I'm a very caring person."

"I will try," Rebecca said, "although I find it hard to believe that your courier can play the role of every person who writes a letter to you. I've seen how many you get in a day. That would take a tremendous amount of talent."

"Well, Fallon is a terrific actor. I would be impressed if you could even come close to her performance."

"I could not hope to do her justice," Rebecca said, but she read the letter out loud, in her best weeping voice, anyway. She even made sure to get on her knees at one point and grovel at the feet of the queen.

Isabella's grin grew and remained steady until she got to the end of the letter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked. "'You could use the public approval'? Is she insinuating that my ratings are somehow low?"

"I'm sure she is only looking out for your best interest," Rebecca said, tucking the scroll into the pocket of her black mink robe.

"I'm sure..."

"Isabella. Do you not agree that this matter warrants your attention?"

"I don't see what the big deal is. For three years, I've heard all about how 'evil' Sorena is, but all she really wants to do is rid our world of Men. What's so bad about that?" She put her feet, quite visible through the glass slippers she was wearing, on the arm of the chair and leaned back. "I could be quite content in a world without Men, Rebecca."

"Believe me, Your Highness—a lot of Women, me included, share in your ideals. If that was the only problem we face, I wouldn't trouble you with this."

"Then why are you?"

"Because Erika has already requested a council meeting to discuss the situation with the deserts to the east. I imagine she's hoping for a response from you before then, but I feel we should know where we stand now."

"Well, talk to the council then! I'm not the only member, you know."

"No, but you're the only one with the power to make sure the right decision gets made."

The queen rolled her eyes.

"Isabella... Let me tell you a story about the council."

"No! Ugh. Your stories are a bore, Rebecca."

"This is a good one! It's a story about a beautiful princess who one day became a queen."

"B-o-r-i-n-g!"

"Before she became queen, though, this princess used to sing all the time. Why, she could sing like you wouldn't believe! She learned how from a very young age, and it wasn't long after that bards from all over the world would travel to the castle to be inspired by her. They would hear her voice and they would wonder, 'Who is this girl who calls herself a princess? She sings so wonderfully that she should be nothing less than an angel!' And they were right. This girl could be anything she wanted to be—anything in the world! ...But there was a problem, you see, for the princess had an evil mother. Her mother, the wicked queen of the land, refused to entertain her daughter's ideals. She hated music and laughter. She called her daughter foolish and childish and said that she would never make a proper queen. And so, her mother kept her locked in the castle day and night, bade the bards to never return, and hid the princess' talent from the world..."

Isabella sat up quietly.

"Fortunately, the princess had a wonderful—and almost as beautiful—aunt who recognized her gift. The aunt knew that the princess would someday became queen and inherit all the land from her wicked mother. Then she could do with the kingdom what she saw fit! But these were dark times in the kingdom and the land was filled with vermin that the evil queen allowed to run free. These despicable creatures would creep around in the shadows at night and make the streets unsafe for Women. It got so bad that the aunt had to take action, to see that the princess would still have a kingdom worth reigning over! For, if not, then the evil queen would have won, and the land would forever be filled with vermin..."

"You mean Men?"

"Yes, Men!" Rebecca exclaimed. "You should know by now that you are this princess, and that this story is true."

"Yes, but I don't see how that relates to the present situation."

"Do you know how I lost my position as countess?"

"Um, you told boring stories?"

"It was by the will of the council, my dear! The very people I trusted turned their backs on me when I decided to take a strong and necessary stand against the race of Men." Rebecca stepped forward. "I wanted you to inherit a great kingdom, Isabella—and they cast me aside like a sack of old grain."

"Uh-huh..."

"But more importantly, I fear they may do the same to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you should choose to aid Erika—"

"I never said I was going to help her."

"That may be. But there are members on the council who will see this as the opportune time to seize the throne right out from under you."

"They can't do that! I'm the queen."

"And I was a countess," Rebecca said. "Now I am again, thanks to you, but I was stripped of that title by a room full of buffoons who thought they could do a better job than me."

"Whatever... That can't happen to me."

"They're jealous of you, Isabella—as they rightfully should be! But you must understand... If they are led to believe you made the wrong decision in this matter, they could vote against you and take over the throne. Not even your famous Black Knight could protect you from that."

"Ugh..." Isabella scowled. "This is all Erika's fault."

"I agree. Why should you come to her kingdom's aid when she is setting you up for such an obvious downfall?"

"That was probably her plan."

"It's likely," Rebecca mused. "Erika is a lot like your mother. She pretends to care about her people, but, at the end of the day, all she really wants is her seat of power."

"Well, she's not having mine. Nobody is. I waited a long time for this."

"I know. Unfortunately, Erika isn't the wise, peace-loving ruler you are. She was raised on an archaic belief that Men are necessary for a people to prosper, and her kingdom relies much too heavily on Penee for their technology and slave labor. If Penee falls to Sorena, Kaligar would crumble not soon after... I fear Erika realizes this, and—in her greed to retain power—she is willing to send Kaligar to war. And for what? A kingdom of Men!"

"It is a silly notion when you put it that way."

"It is—and she wishes us to join her, Your Highness. Us! She would see Ellewyn fall if she doesn't get her way."

"Well, I would never agree to helping Men." Isabella put a finger through one of her pearl necklaces. "Now, if Erika came to me and wanted to stomp Penee to the ground, I'd gladly put on my best boots and join her, but... Well, Erika never was that much fun anyway."

"Then you have decided to decline Erika's request?" Rebecca asked.

"Yes, yes... Declined."

"Very good," Rebecca said. "Shall I write the response letter for you?"

"I wasn't going to do it myself."

"Of course..."

"Are we done now?"

"Well, there's still one issue remaining."

Isabella sighed—longer and louder than what was necessary for this situation, or any other.

"Even if you decide not to send Ellewyn to war, the council will try to make attacks against you. This is a common technique of those who seek power. You see, many years ago..."

"Not another story!" Isabella plugged her ears.

"Many years ago, when your mother wore the crown, a truce was formed between Ellewyn and Kaligar. In the agreements of this doctrine, Kaligar promised loyalty to Ellewyn, if allowed to remain autonomous, and Ellewyn promised to aid Kaligar during a time of war. Now, this conflict between Sorena and Penee—"

"—is hardly what I would call a war," Isabella interrupted. "For it to be a war, there would have to be hope for the other side, and we all know that isn't the case."

Rebecca's mouth froze in mid-sentence. She was stunned.

"...That..." she said. Her hand even began to tremble. "...Isabella, that is brilliant!"

"What?"

"When the council meets to discuss your decision—and criticize every minute detail of it, as they are prone to do—they will almost certainly bring up the terms of the agreement we have with Kaligar as an opposition. But if we can prove this affair with Sorena and Penee is a one-sided battle at best, they won't have a defense to use against us. Nothing in the truce says we are permitted to send Ellewyn to her doom." The older woman bowed her head out of respect. "I am at a loss for words, Isabella. I now know why your mother was so intimidated by you... She knew that you would someday surpass her. Three years on the throne and you're already a greater ruler than she ever was."

Isabella rolled her eyes again.

"We will crush the other council members like Men when they try to argue against you!"

Isabella grinned at the thought of being to squeeze Master Luna between her fingertips, or pop off the head of Nikkilet or one of the druids... That would teach them for making her sit at the kid's table at every one of those council meeting before she took the crown.

"If that is all, Your Highness..." Rebecca said.

"Oh!" Isabella said, snapping out of her wonderful daydream. "Before you go do whatever it is you do around here, there is something I need you to do for me."

"Your wish is my command."

"I know. Now, seek out one of my maids...and have her bring up a new court jester."

"Another one? What happened to the one you were just given?"

"You're standing on him."

Rebecca lifted her shoe. Underneath, the flattened remains of a Man in a red and yellow—but mostly red now—costume looked up at her from the plush carpet of the same color. The jester's hands and feet were bound together and a juggling ball was stuffed in his mouth and held in place by a tiny handkerchief that was likely his own.

"I...take it you weren't too fond of his jokes," Rebecca said.

"His jokes were okay," the queen said. "It was his stories that I didn't appreciate."

Rebecca smiled sheepishly. "Of course... Pardon me, Your Highness. I'll have a maid sent up right away."

-------------------------

About ten minutes later, a well-dressed maid appeared at the entrance to the throne room. She had her hands cupped, one over the other, and she stood like a statue in the doorway with her legs pressed tightly together, as if she were waiting to be summoned forward.

"Did you bring me another fool?" Isabella eventually asked, after making her stand there awkwardly for long enough.

"I did," the maid said.

"Then why don't you give him to me and be on your way?"

"With all due respect, Your Highness, I think it may be best to wait until we receive the next shipment of fools." She lowered her hands and then her voice to a whisper. "He's not like the others, you see."

"Why? Does he have a brain?"

"No. I mean, yes, b-but..."

"B-b-but what?" Isabella mocked her. "Does the cat have your tongue?"

The maid opened her mouth to speak, but, instead of words, her tongue came rolling out. There was a Man on top of it, dressed in fools' clothes, and he wrestled with the slimy pink monster for a good ten seconds before finally pinning it down and raising his arms in triumph.

"No, but I do!" he exclaimed.

The maid was so shocked that she couldn't shut her mouth if she tried. She uncurled her fingers and stared down at her empty hands.

"How did you do that?" she tried to say, but the fool had seated himself comfortably on her tongue, so her words were garbled and slurred.

Isabella looked at her like she would look at a cockroach right before she splatted it against the wall. "Ugh, didn't your mother teach you any manners? You're not supposed to talk with your mouth full of food. Stupid."

"What about a mouth full of fool?" the Man asked, stepping out of the open mouth. He fell, arms folded casually across his chest, and landed in the maid's open palms.

"That's even worse."

"I'm sorry, Your Highness!" the maid stammered. "I don't know how he got there. But now you see what I mean! I knew right away that we should leave this one alone. He's bad to the bone."

"If you can't handle a little Man, maybe you should rethink your position, Maid with No Name."

"Aw, don't be so hard on that poor thing," the fool said. "She can't help that I pulled the wool over her eyes."

"You did no such thing," the maid said, coming to her own defense. Then she squealed as the wool cap on her head suddenly dropped over her eyes. She grabbed for it, stumbled back, and banged her head against the door.

"Am I really that baaah-d to the bone?" the fool asked. "Or am I a wolf in sheep's clothing? You decide."

The maid threw down her cap. "That's it, you little imp! I've had it with you."

But even in her rage, she knew to ask permission before killing a member the court. She looked up, hoping to get the okay from the queen, but all she got was a finger in her general direction and a barreling series of laughs from Isabella.

"You idiot," Isabella said. "You have to be the worst maid I've ever owned. You just let a Man get the best of you!"

The maid's face burned with embarrassment. She didn't know what to say.

"Bring that fool over here. That is, if you know how to walk!" Then Isabella laughed even harder and had to push her fingers into her eye sockets to keep the tears from flooding her face.

Putting a hand over the fool, the maid walked forward slowly, with her head held down, and waited for Isabella to quiet down before placing the fool in her lap.

"I'm sorry—" the maid started to say, but Isabella began flailing her hand in the air like she was shooing away an invisible fly.

"Yes, you are," the queen said. "Now, get out of here. You disgust me."

The maid walked away, clenching her fists and gritting her teeth and muttering obscenities about the race of Men under her breath. If the oak doors hadn't been so much taller and heavier than her, she probably would have slammed them shut, but she just left them open because it was easier to do, and stormed out of the room.

When they were alone, the fool wiped his brow.

"Finally," he said. "I thought she would never leave."

Isabella stared down at the small creature in her lap.

"She got off easy," she said. "She doesn't have to entertain me. That's your job."

"I don't think so."

Isabella raised an eyebrow. "No?"

The fool took off his cap and bowed. "No. Entertaining you would be my pleasure." Then he put the cap back on. "My job is nothing of the such, I am afraid."

"Your job is precisely what I tell you it is," the queen answered. "You would be wise to remember that."

"But if I were wise, I could not be a fool, for a fool is not wise by any definition of the word. And, because you requested entertainment and not philosophy, you must agree that I would do well to remain unwise and do as I do as a fool so that I may entertain you, even if my pleasure becomes of it, so that it may lead to the outcome most desirable to us both."

Isabella pretended to understand him.

"Like I said," she said, "you will entertain me."

"My pleasure."

"No! My pleasure."

"I know it is."

Isabella scrunched her nose into a ball. "Ugh. What do you do anyway, you useless thing?"

"I tell stories."

"That gets you killed around here."

"In that case, I do magic tricks."

"Oooh..." Isabella said, fluffing one of the pillows behind her back. "Well, let's see one of them! Maybe I'll get to show you my magic trick where I make a fool disappear underneath my foot."

"You must show me that one some day," the fool said.

"I'd love to." She looked back down at her lap, but the fool had somehow climbed up her arm and was now standing on her shoulder.

"For my first trick," he said, "I will...say, what's this?"

Without warning, he stuck his arms and head entirely into Isabella's ear. She nearly swatted him then and there, but just when she had her hand raised and was ready to swing, he came out with a gold coin that was bigger than him, and dropped back onto her shoulder.

"I've heard of putting money where your mouth is, but I guess you royal types would rather go with a body part less used," he said.

Instead of bringing her hand down on top of him, Isabella grabbed the coin and turned it over between her thumb and forefinger, searching for a false catch or trick of some sort. When she didn't find one, she scratched it with her fingernail, and when the coating didn't peel away, she put the coin in her mouth and bit down on it.

Unfortunately, it wasn't edible either.

When she at last determined the coin was solid gold, she folded her arms across her chest and did her best to look unimpressed.

"...I know you pulled it out of your sleeve," she said.

The fool snapped his fingers. "So you've seen that one before."

"I may be young, but I wasn't born yesterday."

"My mistake then."

"Quite." She stifled a yawn. "I do hope you have more, fool."

"Of course I do!" he said, reaching into the queen's ear and pulling out another coin.

She glared at him and then snatched the coin away, flicking it across the room. But when she turned back, the fool was standing on a whole stack of gold coins.

"I meant more ways to entertain me, you blasted fool," she said, knocking over the tower with a brush of her hand.

The fool jumped just in time. The coins went scattering across the floor and he landed, after a short tumble and a somersault or two, back in the relative safety of her lap.

"...I can see you are one who isn't satisfied by simple parlor tricks," he said, standing up on the folds of her teal-colored gown. "But I have for you a surprise that I think we will both enjoy."

Isabella drummed her fingers across the arm of her throne. "I feel we differ greatly in our opinions of what is enjoyable."

Suddenly, the maid ran back into the room. She was screaming and wheeling about in circles and clawing at her hair and slapping her uniform all over, like she had some kind of disease.

"Get them off me!" she cried, rubbing her back against the wall. When that didn't work, she dropped to the floor and started rolling around like a person on fire.

Isabella watched her, annoyed, amused, and curious.

"What's your problem?" she asked when the curious side finally took over.

"I think she's just a little antsy," the fool said. "Could be stress from work, something she ate..." He watched the maid strip out of her clothes. "Or maybe the swarm of fire ants that found a way into her undergarments."

When Isabella saw the tiny specks of red that were crawling over the maid's uniform and face, she started laughing so hard that she almost fell out of her throne. Her actions knocked the fool over, but he didn't seem to mind bouncing around in the queen's lap too much, because they were both having a good laugh at the maid's expense.

"I know you had something to do with this!" the maid screamed at the fool. She threw her clothes to the floor and began stomping on them. She pretended every one of those insects was that cursed fool.

But to Isabella, a half-naked servant covered in ants and bite marks was a truly hilarious sight to behold, so she just kept laughing, even after all the ants were dead and the maid had put back on her clothes and stormed out of the room again after swearing revenge on the fool.

Isabella stopped laughing just long enough to yell at her. "That's right—and don't bug us again!" Then she started up again because of her awful pun.

But when she at last realized she had been enjoying the antics of a Man, she quickly and entirely recomposed herself. A long brush of her hair and a deliberate straightening of the crown on her head was enough to hide that smile that she didn't want him to see.

"So, do you have a name, you horrible fool?" she asked.

He sat on her thigh. "If I did have a name, would you call me by such a thing?"

"I guess not. I'd make up something more suiting...like 'Squish,' for the sound you'll inevitably make."

"Then I will extend to you the same courtesy," he proclaimed, "by not calling you by your name."

She scowled. "You will do not such thing!"

"I think I will."

"Fine. Then I think you're going to live up to your name very soon, Squish."

"Well, if you would prefer," he said, "I will call you by your true name then, regardless of what you may call me."

"I think that would be a wise choice, even for a fool."

"Then it is settled! From this day forth, you may call me Squish. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Isabella."

Isabella!? Nobody was allowed to call her that but Fallon and a few select Women of the court. For a Man to speak that name in her presence was unspeakable.

For this joker to do it was beyond words.

But just when she was about to tell him this by belting him across the face with the heel of her slipper, she realized that, by protesting, she would be admitting to having been tricked by a fool. So, angrily, she bit down her tongue, a little harder than she needed to, and pretended everything was fine. Hopefully the fool would be none the wiser.

But the twinkle in his eye told otherwise.

"...Let's have a story, Squish," she soon said.

"I thought you didn't want one of those."

"I changed my mind."

"Oh."

"I'm allowed to do that. I'm the queen."

"I believe you."

Her eyebrows narrowed.

"Should I make one up, or are you fine with the real thing?"

"I don't care," she said. "But it better hold my interest more than the last guy's story. If not, you'll come to the same end as him—squish!"

"What?"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

Isabella blinked.

With a sly and clever grin, the fool got comfortable in her lap, because he knew this would be a long tale. A long tale, indeed.

"I do have one story," he said, removing his cap and setting it on his knees. "Tell me, Isabella... Have you ever heard of the Circus?"

-------------------------

Far away, in the lush green fields of southern Ellewyn, after night had cloaked all the land and each blade of grass bowed to the wind and reigning moonlight, a loud and colorful commotion drew nearby villagers away from their homes. Captivated by the sounds of something unfamiliar, they left quickly, quietly, with candles still burning in the windows. They went out to see the wonder.

Atop a great hill, just off a weather-beaten path, and surrounded on three sides by trees and forested woodland, two large horse-drawn trailers had been pulled alongside each other. Their inner walls were dropped, now parallel to the ground, and latched together to create a stage. The inside of one trailer was hidden behind a curtain that acted as a fourth wall. In the other, there were rows of benches set up, where an audience of about twenty Women were seated. Every now and then, another curious villager would climb into the trailer, look around, and find a seat in the back. Once it was an older woman, a scarf wrapped around her face and her hands still wet with soap suds, and another time it was a mother with her two eager-eyed daughters, who had, on this occasion, been allowed to stay up past their bedtime.

The stage in front of them had three poles—one on either side of the stage and the largest in the middle—and there was a colorful canvas that was draped over the poles and the sides of the trailer, creating something like a tent all around. Strings of lights dangled from the ceiling and blinked in uneven rhythm, twinkling like rainbow-colored stars in the twilight.

Then, rising through a trapdoor in the stage, a bearded Man appeared with a microphone in his hand and a black top hat on his head. He smiled at the audience and then spoke in a voice that thundered through the trailers.

"Ladies and gentlewomen," he said. "Now presenting Hopalong Roy Froggers and his amphibious steed!"

The curtain behind him parted slightly and momentarily, allowing a Man and the frog he was mounted on to jump through it. The frog's rider was dressed from head to toe in leather threads, like a cowboy. He tipped his hat to the audience, but he was abruptly jostled in his seat when firecrackers began to shoot across the stage. Sparks soon turned into flames, following a winding maze of cannon fuses that wound around the stage, and a series of metal hoops that had been set up were suddenly set afire.

"Whoa, girl!" Roy hollered. The flames made his skin glow, but he held tight to the reins in front of him. After adjusting the brim of the hat, he snapped the reins—once, twice, then once more while shouting—and steered his frog to the left.

The slippery-skinned steed bounded forward. The first jump was easy and they cleared the blazing hoop without trouble, but the landing put them in a rough spot for the next.

Roy leaned back in his seat and the frog, acting to his change in position, dipped back onto her hind legs. By doing this, the cowboy was able to direct her towards the next hoop.

After a few small hops, the frog crouched on all four and then sprung forward. Roy had to duck because the fire was so high and it burned his face like the tongue of a hellhound, but he held his body close to the frog's back and they made it through. Upon landing, the hairs on his brow began to sizzle.

"Through the tunnel, girl!" he commanded.

The frog somehow managed to squeeze through a narrow, blazing tube, and then made three more successful hoop-jumps through rising red flames. During the final jump, though, which was a spectacular two feet in the air, the fire nearly swallowed them alive.

But they made it through unscathed and Roy pinched out the tiny ember that was wriggling around the brim of his hat like a worm on a hook.

Then he took off his hat and waved to the appreciate audience, who were clapping for him.

"Thank you, ladies," he said, patting the frog's head. "But I couldn't have done it without my friend here."

The bearded Man ran back onto the stage. "Well, I don't know about you, folks, but I'm a little disappointed. I was hoping for some fried frog legs."

His comment was met with laughter.

"Hey, we heard that!" Roy said. He leaned over to cover the ears of his mount and then stopped. "Hey... Do frogs have ears?"

The audience laughed harder.

"No... Hey, I'm serious. Come on."

"That was great, Hopalong Roy," the bearded Man said. "Now, hop along." He escorted the cowboy and frog off the stage before turning back to the crowd . "Ladies, we have an amazing show for you tonight. For those of you who don't already know me, I am the Ringmaster, your host for tonight's festivities. But that's not nearly as important as who I'd like you to meet next. Introducing... The Clown Who Does Stupid Things Because We Ask Him To!" Then he winked. "But here at the Circus, we usually just call him Jeff."

A few cheers came from the audience.

Very few.

"...Ah, so you've heard of him," the Ringmaster said. "Well, don't worry, folks. We always save our best acts until the end."

That got them laughing again.

"For your entertainment tonight..." the Ringmaster continued. "The amazing Jeff will dive from the top of this fifteen foot high ladder into a pool of green jello that we will then auction off at the end of this show!"

He directed the audience to the pole in the middle of the stage. Up, near the top of the pole, and almost touching the ceiling of tent, was a rectangular platform where a clown in bad make-up and equally bad clothes was waving to the Women in the crowd.

"Hi, guys!" he said. "Ha, ha—you all look like ants from up here!"

That wasn't true at all, considering he was only about fourteen feet in the air, and he was the one that was the size of an ant. But it was Jeff, so nobody tried to insert logic into his statement.

Suddenly, Roy poked his head through the curtain. The frog did too, but it was the cowboy who motioned for the Ringmaster.

The Ringmaster brought the microphone over to Roy.

"Sorry, boss," the cowboy said. "We're fresh out of pools of green jello."

The Ringmaster sighed. "Dang. How many times do I have to tell you not to let your frog near the food, Roy."

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

The frog belched an apology and the audience laughed. They knew by the horrible acting that this was all part of the show.

"Well, we still need something for Jeff to jump into," the Ringmaster continued. "What else do we have back there?"

The cowboy pushed the curtain apart. "All we have is this glass of freezing cold ice water."

"That will work. Set 'er up!"

"Yes, sir!"

Roy summoned his frog and began to tie the reins around the glass. While they towed the heavy glass across the stage, the audience put down their snacks and leaned forward in their seats in awe. They had never seen a Man jump into a glass of water before.

At least, not by his own will.

When the glass was finally under the diving platform, Roy cut the reins and hopped off stage.

Jeff, the stupid clown, looked down and frowned.

"Um, guys..." he said. "I don't remember doing this in rehearsal..."

"Well, it's a good thing we're not in rehearsal then, isn't it?" the Ringmaster said.

"Oh, yeah... Good point!"

The Ringmaster turned to the audience. "Would any of you lovely ladies like the honors of doing the countdown? I'm pretty sure Jeff can't count backwards from ten."

"That's not true!" Jeff yelled. "Sophia taught me how yesterday."

"I want to do it!" one of the girls in the crowd shouted. She stood up. "Ten! Nine..."

Some of the others chimed in with her. "Eight... Seven..."

Jeff bent his legs.

"Six..."

Jeff closed his eyes.

"Five..."

Jeff opened his eyes. Jumping without his eyes open would be very stupid.

"Four..."

Jeff closed his eyes. His short term memory never was good.

"Three..."

Jeff jumped.

He wasn't very good at math either.

"Uh..." the audience said as the clown plummeted through the air.

"Did I land yet?" Jeff asked. He opened his eyes just in time to see the tidal wave that erupted from the glass when he landed. He was swept under, into a cold sea of blue, and watched the ice cubes above him crash together like mammoth-sized glaciers and then rush to fill in the void left by his body.

To the audience, it was just a small plop—like adding another ice cube to the glass—but they cheered for the clown anyway.

Jeff saw their faces through the transparent glass and waved at them until he remembered that he needed air to breathe and was forced to surface. He grabbed onto an ice cube and continued his mindless celebration inside the glass.

He was just as surprised as the audience that he wasn't killed.

"Tell the cleric she can go home," the Ringmaster whispered to Roy, who nodded and shooed away a holy Woman who was standing just offstage.

While that was going on, Jeff tried to climb out of the glass, but he had spilled so much during his entry that the water level was too low for him to pull himself up.

Fortunately, he was saved from any further embarrassment because the audience's attention was now directed towards a new figure who had come through the curtain. It was a Woman, like them, but she was obviously part of the show because she was dressed in a silk robe and a veil that covered the lower portion of her face.

"I hope I'm not late," she said, taking off her robe and setting it on a convenient table that had been set up on the stage. Underneath, she was wearing a red and blue sleeveless bodice and a matching gypsy skirt that fluttered when she walked. "I just flew in from a party in Haledon and my arms are killing me."

The audience laughed. They all knew people couldn't fly.

"You have no idea how exhausted I am," she said, taking out a small plume of colorful feathers and fanning herself. "I could really go for a drink."

Then she spotted the glass of water on the stage, picked it up, and put it to her lips.

"No!" the audience screamed.

She finished most of it in one swig and sighed happily.

"Ahh, that's better," she said.

The audience continued to shout, but she kept drinking, and only when the glass was empty did she seem to take notice of them.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"You drank him!" they cried out in unison.

She stared at them, confused, and the Ringmaster came over and leaned against her slipper.

"It appears, my dear," he explained, "that you have swallowed our beloved clown in the quest of quenching your thirst."

"Oh..." The gypsy put a hand to her lips. "A clown? So that's why it tasted...funny."

"What are we going to do?"

"Well, this is a problem," she said. "I'm terribly sorry, Russell. But I can't be the only woman in Adelais who has ever swallowed a Man by accident. Am I right?"

A short burst of laughter came from the audience. That much was true.

It usually happened on purpose.

"I'm afraid our show is ruined," the Ringmaster said. "We can't go on without a clown. We're going to have to give all these fine people their money back."

"Good thing the tickets were free," the gypsy said, more to the audience than to the Man at her feet.

The laughs were a little louder this time.

"I guess we should start looking for another clown then."

Suddenly, a light bulb appeared above the gypsy's head. "Hmm... I got it!"

"Sorry about that," somebody said. A male stagehand came down on a wire, grabbed the fallen bulb, and screwed it back into place in the ceiling.

The gypsy stared at him blankly.

"You...said you have an idea?" the Ringmaster pressed her.

"Oh...right," the gypsy said. "I remember seeing a clown around here before."

"Where?"

The gypsy pointed to the top of the ladder. The Ringmaster and the crowd looked up and saw a familiar clown perched on the diving platform. With a big grin, the clown honked his nose and there was no doubt in anybody's mind that it was indeed Jeff, the same clown as before, waving down at them.

The audience gasped and then broke into whoops and cheers.

"Ladies—the lovely Mischievelle, Mistress of Illusions!" the Ringmaster shouted over the howls of the crowd. More applause rang out.

"Thank you, everybody," the gypsy said with a flourish. Then she pulled a microphone out of nowhere. "You know, a lot of people think illusion is a dying art. They ask, 'Why should we care about the things we cannot see?'" She bent down and picked up the Ringmaster, setting him on the mouthpiece of her microphone. "Love, fear, excitement... These are all things we cannot see. Does that mean they do not exist? Illusion is not a dying art. Illusion is simply a different channel through which we can view the world, through senses other than the eyes. To illustrate this, I would like to ask for a volunteer from the audience."

She chose a young lady from the first row.

"Children have a way of better understanding this than us adults," she explained. She waited for the little girl to make her way to the stage and then grabbed three turtle shells that were sitting on the table next to her.

"I'm sure you've seen this trick before," she said. "What I'm going to do is put our host under one of these shells and then mix them up. When I'm done, I want you to point to the shell you think he's under. Understand?"

The little girl nodded eagerly.

"Okay..." The gypsy put down her microphone, causing the Ringmaster to spill across the table. "Here we go."

"Hey, wait—!" The Ringmaster tried to stand up, but he was suddenly shoved underneath one of the turtle shells. Two more shells were placed down next to him, and then the gypsy began to shuffle them—very slowly at first, and then a bit quicker. Still, she never moved her hands quite fast enough for even the people in the back of the audience to lose track of the right shell.

When she was finished, she moved her hands away from the table. "Okay. Which one do you think he is under?"

The little girl stood on her tiptoes and pointed to the middle shell.

The gypsy lifted it, but there was nothing underneath.

"I'm sorry," she said. "He doesn't appear to be there."

The little girl was confused, and so was the audience. They had all watched the shells very closely and they knew which one he had placed under.

Before the gypsy could stop her, the little girl flipped over the other two shells. There was nothing under either of them.

"Where'd he go?" she asked.

"Well," the gypsy explained, "this trick is quite simple. When I go to mix up the shells, I simply lift the back of one of them—the side you cannot see—and flick him up my sleeve. Then I continue to shuffle them for as long as I wish and ask you which one he is under. Because your eyes are focused on the shells, you don't notice the movements of my hand."

"But, Miss Michievelle..."

"Yes?"

"You're not wearing any sleeves."

The gypsy looked down at her bare arms and blushed.

"Oh, you are right..." she said. She reached for her robe that was on the other side of the table and put her arms through it "Is that better?"

"All better for me," the Ringmaster said, crawling out of the gypsy's sleeve and into her waiting hand.

The little girl's jaw dropped and the audience cheered again.

"But... but..." the little girl stammered, holding an empty turtle shell in each hand.

Smiling, the gypsy took her by the hand and walked her back to her seat.

"But illusion isn't just about making things appear and disappear," she said, putting up her hood. "It's also about changing the way things look, are, and operate. For instance... I can change the way I look." She spun around and the color of her robe turned from white to multicolor. "I can change the way I sound. Or...I can even change what I am."

Suddenly, keeping her back to the audience, the gypsy dropped her hands and the robe she was wearing fell lifelessly to the floor. There was a hush over the crowd and then, crawling out from the fallen threads, came a tiny kitten with the same blue eyes as the gypsy.

"It's really quite amazing," the kitten said.

The audience was stunned.

The kitten flicked her tail, and then a dark-skinned Man with a whip ran onto the stage and began to taunt the feline with his rope.

"Back—back, you foul beast!" he said.

The kitten mewed and stepped back. Her paws scraped the robe on the floor.

The Ringmaster, was now sitting on the kitten's head, picked up his microphone.

"Ladies," he cried, "I'd like to introduce Big Mack, the Tamer of Vicious Beasts and Household Pets!"

"Get off of me," the kitten said, taking a wild swat at him.

The Ringmaster was knocked to the stage floor, but he quickly regained his footing and ran behind Mack.

"You've been a very bad pussy," Mack said, cracking his whip.

The kitten rolled her eyes. "That was an unnecessary choice of words."

"Back into your cage, I say!"

One of the girls in the audience stood up.

"Kick his ass!" she yelled.

The others in the crowd cheered her on.

This only caused the kitten to lick her lips and stare Mack down.

"I would hate to disappoint my fans," she purred.

Mack bopped her on the nose. She reared back, hissed, and lunged for him.

But again, he cracked his whip and she pulled back. Angrily, she circled him, but he could spin just as fast as her, and his whip was always ready to meet her maw.

Finally, she gave up and sunk on all four legs.

"Good kitty," Mack said. He stroked the kitten's nose. "Your fans are now my fans."

Then, to demonstrate how well he had tamed the vicious kitten, he commanded Mischievelle to open her mouth and he stuck his entire head inside.

"The beast has been tamed!" he called out.

The applause he got only led to him doing that a second time. This time, the cheers were even louder, so he decided to stick his whole body inside, plop down on the kitten's tongue, and flex his muscles to the crowd.

Well, he had gotten two of those three things done when the kitten got through yawning and closed her mouth. Then she tilted her head back, swallowed the dumbfounded Man, and began licking her paw.

The audience gasped and the mother of two covered the eyes of her daughters.

The kitten flicked her tail a couple times, showed the audience her shiny white teeth and empty mouth, and then pranced about happily for a minute. Afterward, she scrambled back under the robe. Then, like the magic, the robe rose up from the floor, took shape, and the gypsy had returned.

"That's one trick you certainly don't want to try at home," she said.

The audience let out a nervous laugh. Then they watched her, waiting, as if they expected something else to happen.

"What?" she asked.

"What about the Man you ate?" someone finally yelled.

"What about him?"

"Is he still there?"

Instead of answering, the gypsy bent down, pinched the Ringmaster's microphone between her fingertips, and swallowed it. The audience heard a long series of hollow thumps, followed by a whistling echo, and then a splash. There was some fumbling for a moment, and then a muffled voice came over the loudspeaker.

"...Hello?" the voice said. "Michelle? What's going on? This wasn't in the script."

"Hell hath no fury, Mack," the gypsy said, looking down at her belly.

Someone in the crowd stood up. "Now you're going to make him reappear, right?"

"No, that's it. Trick's over."

The gypsy raised her hands to the ceiling and bowed her head and gave the audience such a grand flourish that her skirt danced and skittered across the stage floor. But all the while, Mack was bowled about in her stomach like a bad dessert, and the audience could still hear his voice over the loudspeaker.

"This isn't funny," he whined. "You promised you wouldn't do this anymore!"

When she was finished, the gypsy stood up, and waved to the audience with beads and charms bouncing off her wrists

"Have a good night, everybody!" she said.

"Okay, you can let me out now," Mack said, but the gypsy skipped off stage and the microphone soon went dead.

The male stagehand from before dropped in from the ceiling and, while being suspended from a wire in midair, presented the Ringmaster with a new microphone.

"Thanks, Neil," the Ringmaster said. Then he looked out at the audience and started to wring his collar. "We'll, um...talk to Mischievelle after the show...and get this taken care of."

"I think it's time to move onto the next act," the stagehand named Neil whispered.

The Ringmaster released his collar and hopped onto Neil's unsuspecting back. "You are correct!" Then he yanked on the wire, which began to rise, and carried him and a screaming stagehand out over the crowd of Women.

"For our next act," he announced, "I am going to need some help from somebody in the audience. Do I have a volunteer?"

He scanned all the eager faces and then pointed to a girl who was sitting quietly in the back. "How about you, young lady?"

The girl blushed and put a hand over her face, but her friends eventually forced her out of her seat. She nervously weaved her way through the crowd.

"And what is your name?" the Ringmaster asked.

The girl offered him her hand, which he jumped into it.

"Valerie..." she said quietly.

"Valerie... How would you like to meet the World's Strongest Man?"

"Oh, I'd like that very much."

"I'm sorry—I have tiny ears. I couldn't hear you."

He held the microphone up and she leaned her face down next to it.

"I'd like that very much," she repeated.

The audience applauded. Red as a flower, she followed the stairs down to the stage and was greeted by a bald Man no bigger than the total length of her nose. He stood with his hands behind his back and smiled up at her.

"Valerie," the Ringmaster said, "I'd like you to meet my good friend, Wallace—or, as we like to call him, the World's Strongest Man!"

Valerie reached down to shake his hand. Then she remembered his size, turned even redder, and only held out her pinky.

He shook it and didn't seem to take any offense.

She did her best not to giggle. The World's Strongest Man? If she wasn't careful, she might accidentally crush him with her smallest finger.

"Now, Valerie," the Ringmaster said. "What I'm about to ask you to do might shock you, but I'm sure you've heard what I'm about to say a million times before." He paused for a moment. "Valerie... Step on that Man!"

It did, in fact, shock her. She almost fell over, but the cheers from the crowd seemed to catch her and edge her on. After all, it wasn't often that they came across a Man who was willing to die.

Usually that took some effort on their part.

"I...I don't know," she said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"It's okay, Valerie," Wallace said. Even without a microphone to his face, his voice boomed across the tent. "I'm a trained professional."

"A professional at being stepped on?" she asked.

Snickers rose from the crowd, but Wallace simply nodded his head.

Valerie looked down. She was wearing thick leather boots that came up to her knees. There was no way a Man could survive a full, boot-on-body collision with those.

"If you're worried about your shoes," the Ringmaster said, "the Circus will graciously reimburse you if you ruin them during this act."

She shook her head. "No, it's not that."

"If you don't step on him, I will!" some fat, obnoxious woman with a hot dog yelled.

Wallace glanced over at her and then back at Valerie, retaining his calm and gentle demeanor.

"I don't think any of us want to see that, Valerie," he said.

She gave a trying smile, followed by a giggle, and then nodded.

"Okay," she said. "...Um, does it matter which foot?"

He shook his head.

With trembling knees, Valerie raised her right foot. She moved it forward and held it a few inches over Wallace head, and then slowly brought her foot down. When it touched him, though, she pulled back.

"I can't do it," she said.

The fat woman stood up. "Oh, for the love of Dai Celesta—let me do it!"

But the sudden noise started Valerie. She lost her balance and brought her full weight down on Wallace. Before she could react, he disappeared under her boot. She brought both her hands up to her lips and gasped, but she didn't even think to move her foot.

"N-no..." she said. "I'm sorry."

The fat woman downed her fourth hot dog of the night. "Ha, ha! That's one less Man to eat our food."

A few people in the audience booed her, a few threw food, and a few moved to a new seat that didn't have a large hippo blocking their view of the show.

Valerie almost broke into tears. Then, suddenly, she felt something moving around underneath her foot. Could he still be alive, she wondered, and her heart skipped a beat. She started to lift her leg, but then she realized—her foot was already off the floor! She looked down and stared in disbelief. The Man was not only still alive, but he was heaving his way to freedom against the weight of her entire leg.

Wallace grunted. His back was arched, with one leg bent out in front of him and the other held stiffly behind him for support, and he carried the bulk of the girl's boot on his massive two inch-wide shoulders.

When he had lifted the foot about four inches off the stage, Valerie lost her balance and fell backwards. But he was as quick as he was strong, and he barreled towards her backside like a cannonball and caught her before she hit the floor. And there he stood, a Man among Men, holding up this Woman with one hand and not a bead of sweat on his face.

Then he bent at the knees and tossed Valerie back onto her feet, as gently as a cloud.

"W-wow..." was all she could say. That's all the audience could say as well. They just gawked at the miniature wonder and forgot to applaud or even breathe.

The only person in the stands who wasn't frozen to her seat was the fat heckler.

"Plant!" she bellowed. "She's obviously a plant."

"That's strange," Wallace said. "I didn't see any roots growing from her feet."

The audience laughed, but the hippo wasn't amused.

"She's as fake as this whole show is," she said. "I know for a fact that no Man is strong enough to lift a Woman."

"The illusion portion of our show is already over," the Ringmaster said. "I assure you that what you just saw is very real. And now, for our final act of the evening..."

"For our final act, I'm going to stomp that Man to pieces!"

The hippo pushed her way through the crowd. She got a lot of boos for this, but the Ringmaster calmed the audience down with his usual charismatic remarks.

"Let her come," he said. "Here at the Circus, we don't turn anybody away."

Finally, she reached the stage. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she pushed Valerie out of the way and planted a foot on either side of Wallace.

"I've squished enough of these in my time," she said with a wide grin. "I know just how to do it so they stay dead."

Wallace noticed a piece of hot dog that was still stuck in her teeth.

"You're going to want to get your cleric back in here," she said. Then she jumped. She couldn't jump very high, but she was somehow able to rotate her body in the air and stick her flabby legs straight out, so that her entire rump came down on Wallace. And it came down hard, causing a small tremor to shake the stage and nearly break through it.

After that, there was silence.

She shifted her weight and then smiled.

"Well, well..." she said."I can't feel him anymore."

"Get off him!" Valerie cried. She tried to push the hippo off Wallace, but the fat lady ignored her like a salad bar in an all-you-can-eat restaurant.

Even the audience started yelling, but she just threw back her head and guffawed.

"The World's Strongest Man is now the World's Flattest Man!" she said.

Suddenly, her rump began to shake. Still trapped underneath her, Wallace's muscles took on a new and amazing form, swelling to three times their normal size. As if some godlike power was coursing through him, he began to grow in every way, causing his shirt to be ripped from his body. He was nearly twelve inches tall by the time he was visible to the crowd, hoisting the entire mass of blubber on his back.

"What the fudge is going on!?" the fat lady bellowed. She was just as flabbergasted as everybody else who was staring at this mountain of a Man.

With a groan that boomed like thunder, Wallace seized a thick roll of flesh in each hand and began to whirl the hippo around in the air.

"Stop that!" she screamed. "Put me down at once!"

"With...pleasure..." Wallace grunted. Then he planted his feet firmly on the stage floor and hurled the fat lady out the trailer. With a huge plop that blanketed the side of the tent, she landed in a mud puddle and the audience erupted in laughter and cheers.

"Wallace, the World's Strongest Man!" the Ringmaster shouted, pointing the microphone towards Wallace and Valerie.

"My hero!" Valerie cried, clapping her hands and giggling. Then, still smiling, she knelt down and gave Wallace a big wet kiss that caused him to shrink back to normal size.

The crowd whistled and Valerie's face returned to a bright shade of red.

"Now, before I introduce the final act," the Ringmaster said, "I'd like you to meet the composer of all the wonderful music you keep hearing. I'm sure you've heard of her before, she earned fame long before the Circus even existed—ladies and gentlewomen, it's my great pleasure to introduce the one, the only—Sophia Van Helen!"

The curtains were pushed apart completely this time. Behind them was a raised and darkened stage, but there was nobody on it. Then, one by one, the bulbs overhead began to flicker and then burst in sudden flashes of light. This process started out slow—a bulb every few seconds, perhaps—and then quickened its pace, with each explosion becoming brighter and more colorful than the last, until every bulb in the tent was either flashing or bursting or had already burst. As this happened, the light filaments from the broken bulbs would rain to the floor, creating a series of loud and consecutive sparks that would pop and glitter across the stage like electricity. That is when a haunting guitar solo filled the night and a crouching figure appeared on the rooftop of the adjacent trailer, facing the audience.

When the last bulb had burned out, the figure rose to full height and played a ballad in darkness. Only the moon, whose blue threads of light were being filtered through a few patches and holes in the tent's lining, allowed for the audience to make out the musician's movements as her fingers plucked those guitar strings.

When she played, all eyes in the audience were fixated on her and nothing else. She was a thing to behold. Her body was still, the placement of her fingers precise, and her music unforgettable. And when she jumped onto the stage and a spotlight came on and shone down on her like a beam from the heavens, she held that guitar to her chest and tore across those strings like a hurricane from hell. Every Woman in the stands stood up and cheered over the ghostly wail of the chords that made fire itself dance from her fingertips.

These musical embers rose and replaced the lights that had burned out overhead with a warm, red glow that seemed to hover in place. Then, without missing a note, the musician lifted her foot and kicked up a harmonica stand that was built into the neck of her guitar, and she began to play that as well. Afterward, she jumped onto the stage and there were drums there that she began to play with her feet, and yet the music from her guitar and harmonica never stopped. The audience watched in sheer amazement—masked over by their screaming voices—as she played three instruments at once, each better than they had ever heard in their lives, and banged her head to the rhythm of the music she was playing.

There are many who have never heard of the Circus, but Sophia Van Helen was a legend, even in these days. She had a face plastered in make-up, black and scraggly hair with wild streaks of pink dye that would make a demon look primp by comparison, and she wore piercings in places that most girls in Adelais didn't even know holes could go. Sophia was the poster child for every teenage girl who wanted to break free of the tyranny of her mother, and she was known the kingdom over for her ability to bring music to life.

For five minutes, she played, and the audience shouted and raised their hands and cheered and wished to the Goddess that they could be her for a day. Then, as she eased into a softer melody, Sophia stepped back, lowered her head, and the curtain began to close.

Nobody had been watching the Ringmaster until now, but he had climbed to the top of the ladder and now stood on the fifteen foot platform, looking out over the audience.

"And now for our final act," he yelled. "Ladies, I give you...Thunderbird Jesse James, Daredevil Extraordinaire!" He pointed to the stage, where a Man had just stepped out from behind the curtain. He was wearing black leather with flames on the sleeves and back, and his presence brought screams from five teenage girls in the stands.

"WE LOVE YOU, JESSE!" they screamed, lifting up their shirts.

He turned to them and saw, not to his great surprise, their undershirts that spelled his name, J-E-S-S-E, from left to the right. He flashed them a smile and gave a two-finger salute. Then he had to duck and run to avoid all the roses that were being thrown down at him. He did all of this only to end up under a brassiere.

But he came out from under it, still smiling, and flipped up his collar. That brought screams from the crowd that topped the audible levels of Sophia's guitar solo.

Jesse ran a hand through his golden-brown hair and adjusted the straps on the metal backpack he was wearing, which was a strange device that hooked around his shoulders and was decorated with colorful flames to match his outfit.

While he was doing that, Roy and his frog came back onto the stage, wheeling a cannon.

"Good luck, partner," Roy said, tossing him a helmet.

Jesse slapped the cowboy's hand, put on the helmet, and jumped into the cannon feet first.

"Can I have a light?" he asked, lowering his goggles.

The frog tilted her head back and lassoed one of the flames that was still hovering in the air with her tongue. She rolled the fire around in her mouth, puffed her cheeks a couple of times, and then let out a huge, flamethrower-like belch in the direction of the cannon.

"Good girl," Roy said.

Jesse gave him a thumbs-up and dropped down into the cannon. The fuse was lit, the audience was watching, and Roy and the frog got the hell out of the way because they knew what was coming.

Then, in what sounded like a loud clap of thunder, the cannon exploded and Jesse shot across the stage. He whistled through the air like an arrow, but he didn't fly out of the tent, like the audience expected. Instead, he passed through a U-shaped funnel attached to the pole at the edge of the stage and was flung in the opposite direction.

When he reached the other side of the tent, he vanished into another plastic tube and was then spit out towards the back of the stage. There, a track had been set up—most likely during Sophia's performance—and he landed on a skateboard that was sitting on the top of a five-foot incline. His oncoming momentum propelled him and the skateboard forward and down they went, the wheels of the skateboard skidding and bouncing across the wooden surface, and Jesse moved from side to side and held out his arms for balance.

Up ahead, the track came to a giant loop. The audience knew he didn't have the speed to make it, but he didn't veer off the track. Instead, he rode the skateboard towards the center of the track and grabbed the handles that were protruding from his backpack. Then, he leaned forward, buckled at the knees, and pushed the buttons that were located on top of the handles. Two rocket thrusters suddenly appeared at the bottom of his backpack and ignited, causing him to burn rubber over the loop. A trail of fire and black streaks marked the path he had taken.

After that, he rode the rails of the track around a series of winding turns, holding his body parallel to the stage floor, before coming to the end of the track. It ended abruptly, with a slope towards the ceiling, and he ramped off it and flew straight towards the audience, apparently out of control.

Then, he cut the thrusters and twirled in the air like a spinning top. As he reached the zenith of his arc, he hung motionless for a second, and then he pointed his arm towards the pole in the center of the stage. A grappling hook shot out of the mechanical device that was on his forearm and wrapped around the pole. Before gravity could overtake him, he latched the rope onto his backpack, turned the thrusters back on, and was sent rocketing in circles around the pole.

The audience oohed and ahhed him. During the first few trips around the pole, he was nearly over their heads, but the circle gradually got tighter and tighter and tighter, and soon it was ready to smash him into the pole.

At the last second, he pulled a ripcord and released himself from the hook. He soared over the audience, the thrusters choked and burned out, and he fumbled with the straps on his backpack as he started to fall.

While the Women fell over each other in an attempt to be the one to catch him, he pulled a cord and his backpack sprung open. A parachute popped out, opened, and carried him gently into the hands of fifteen screaming Women who were all his biggest fan.

"That's all our for our show tonight!" the Ringmaster announced, still standing at the top of the diving platform. "But before we do our last act, I'd like to thank you for letting us join all of you this fine evening outside of your village. I hope, after seeing our performances tonight, we humble Circus folk have found a place in your hearts...though we'd very much appreciate it if we didn't find a place in your pockets as well." He winked at a certain girl in the audience, who blushed and set Jesse down on the stage.

"You've all been wonderful," the Ringmaster said as Jesse wiped the lipstick from his face and went backstage. "Truly wonderful. Again, we thank you." Then he made a fist-pump with his hand and turned around. "Sophia, play us out!"

The curtain fell and the stage blazed with a gut-wrenching cacophony of fire and rock. Sophia danced on those drums and her fingers raced so fast across her guitar that they became one with the vibrating strings. Every now and then, one of the lids of the drums that she wasn't standing on would burst into flames and fire would shoot from the open cavity that had been created. Then, she would lean into the neck of her guitar and play that harmonica like nobody else could.

But somewhere in the middle of her dance, she was interrupted by the frantic wail of an instrument other than her own. She stopped her dance, released the strings on the guitar, and looked down at her feet. The spotlight followed, revealing Hopalong Roy, mounted on the back of his frog, whisking a bow across a golden fiddle. He played that thing just as loud as Sophia could play her guitar, and just as good.

When he was finished, he gestured to Sophia with his bow and she took up his challenge. She planted a foot on either side of Roy and cranked out another riff, strumming the guitar with careful finger strokes, and ended on a reverberating twang that lasted for nearly ten seconds before she slid her fingers down the strings and brought it a stop.

Roy grinned. Before the spotlight was on him again, his bow was out and he was sawing that fiddle again, chaining together notes faster than any human should be able to hear, let alone play.

Sophia answered back with a hailstorm of rock. She fondled the neck of the guitar and her fingers blew across the frets, but Roy was not to be outdone. He stood on the back of his frog, shifted his weight to one foot, and played that fiddle like he had won it from the devil herself.

When it was back to Sophia, her guitar was so hot that there were cinders dripping from the strings. She kept playing, though, and finished her best riff yet with a chord that could take the skin off an elephant, but Roy jumped in right where she had left off, and soon the two were playing as one. Their music rocked the stage and brought tears to the audience.

That's about the time the other members of the Circus came onto the stage and joined in. First, there was Jeff the clown, shaking a tambourine, and then Neil the stagehand, who had come down from his wire and was now stooping over a piano that was half his size. Wallace, the World's Strongest Man, replaced Sophia on the drums, using his massive fists to create a rhythm that boomed throughout the tent, and Thunderbird Jesse James came out with a bass guitar and started playing it between Sophia's ever-dancing feet. And then there was the Ringmaster, the great conductor himself, leading the band from his platform high above.

The music crescendoed to a great crash of cymbals, and then, save for a steady, driving beat from Wallace's drums, they were silent. Even the embers from above began to dim.

Then, apparently freed from his gypsy prison, Big Mack appeared on the stage, crooning a saxophone. Mischievelle entered behind him, shaking the beads on her arms and twirling across the floor on her toes. She danced around each of the Men on the stage, brushing them with the colorful frills on her skirt, and began chanting in such a way that it brought the embers from Sophia Van Helen's guitar to life. These beautiful orbs began to form wispy constellations in the shape of more dancers, mimicking the movements of the gypsy, and they changed colors in the air, ranging from red to blue to purple to green to everything in between.

As the array of ember gypsies closed in on their creator, the rest of the band grabbed their instruments and joined back in, returning the music to its former clamor of glory.

Seeing that the show was coming to an end, two Men from backstage ran out and joined the festivities. One of them—Bob, as his friends called him—played a triangle, while the other—Guy, Bob's only friend—clapped his hands to the music. Neither of them were very good, but their sounds were all but muted anyway against the clash of the instruments and the roaring of the crowd.

Then, Sophia stepped forward, passing over the heads of Bob and Guy, and played a fiery aria of rock that at last began to melt her guitar. As this happened, Mischievelle came up from behind, waved her hands, and the fire from Sophia's guitar started to separate from the guitar itself. One at a time, the flames rose out of the magical instrument like a soul out of a body, and the hot, smoldering cinders eventually wrapped around each other like vines before exploding into the head of a dragon.

The fiery beast rose towards the ceiling and then swooped out over the audience. Down the beast came, but the music from the guitar seemed to serenade the dragon, and it came back, circled Sophia, and its long, flickering tail began to undulate like a wave of cosmic energy in the air.

"Flame on," Sophia whispered, and the dragon turned to face the audience. With a horrifying roar—one that could split an oak tree right down the middle—the beast opened its mouth and released such a plume of fire that the entire tent was engulfed in a sea of color and flame.

The girls in the audience were blown back into their seats. Their hair tingled and their faces were scorched by the touch of fire, but they were unharmed. It was just an amazing sensation, one that they would not soon forget, and it silenced all their cheers. They just leaned back, felt the fire warm their skin like the sun on a fresh spring day, when the snow first begins to thaw, and closed their eyes.

When the fire cleared, the dragon was gone, and the band was playing below a cloud of smoke as black as the night sky, which was momentarily revealed through the flapping of the tent's sides, having been torn loose by the roar of the dragon.

Yes, it's true that not everybody has heard of the Circus. Not all legends are famous, not all heroes renowned, and not all wonders have been seen by every human eye. But for those lucky few who have seen them, they would say to those who have not, "If the Circus is in town—yes, go. You must see them live. I saw the wonder, and so should you."

-------------------------

"Nonsense! Rubbish! Absolute poppycock!" Isabella turned up her nose. "You couldn't possibly tell a more ridiculous story if you had a million years to write it, and I a million years to listen."

The fool smiled. "I knew you'd like it."