Pierrot & The Beast of Bodmin Moor

Carlisles’ Frontier Wild West Circus was making its 1923 debut tour of England and Scotland. Nine train cars rattled over the English countryside, crammed full of colorful props, miles of rope and canvas, and the exhausted men who put up and ripped down the entire circus every few days. 

The week previous the top clown had died of an exploded appendix, and Pierrot had been promoted to the high position. The clown was known for his wild antics, for being able to juggle six balls with perfect skill, and for being one of the best tumblers in the business. Now that he had the responsibility of keeping the other clowns in line, Pierrot had made the mistake of expecting more pay for the position. 

He approached the owner and demanded a raise for the extra demands placed upon his person, hinting that the show might not go on unless it happened. The owner laughed, spat a thick dose of tobacco juice on Pierrot’s feet, and had the man red-lighted. A nasty circus tradition where a person, usually one who is owed money, is tossed from a moving railcar in the middle of nowhere. 

Luckily, Pierrot was redlined at a crossroads. One of those mystical places where the boundaries between worlds were hazy at best. The momentum of the toss threw him straight mto Elsewhere, a place where fairies and elves still romped and all sorts of mythological mayhem occurred daily. 

The bramble did not break his bones, but cushioned him like a lost lamb. He bounced up and down on it, trampoline style, for several minutes before bounding onto the dirt of Elsewhere. Ten minutes earlier, he had been at the top of his career. Now he was a stranger in the strangest land imaginable. Pierrot checked his pockets, apart from his makeup, all he had was a bag of juggling balls. 

The ground was covered in carnage. The guts and mangled limbs of men lay everywhere. Blood, not water, ran freely down creeks. Organ meat fed the foul lichen native to the rocky moor. Cries of pain and the dashed dreams of glory peppered the air. Broken spears and smashed swords, ruined chariots and decapitated horses punctuated the aura of danger pregnant in the wind. 

He saw the cause of this misery on top of a hill, the Beast of Bodmin Moor. A giant black cat with flashing green eyes. Two hairy tendrils ending in a poison-dripping scorpion stings sprouted from the beast’s neck. They whipped about the monster with terrifying speed. 

A knight encased in shining armor approached. Weapon ready, shield fixed, he charged the beast. One-two, one-two, his blade shown through. The beast, now bloodied, jumped back and crouched as if readying to pounce. The knight braced himself, but instead of leaping, the beast’s tendrils planted their stingers between the joints of the knight’s armor. The would-be hero fell to his knees in paralyzed pain, and the beast leapt, taking the knight’s head off with one fluid bite. 

The knight’s equipment flew all over, including a slender dagger, a misericord, which flew at Pierrot's feet. The clown quickly picked it up and stashed it away in his bag of balls. The beast batted the knight’s head about as cats will do with rolling things, until it spotted Pierrot, then arched its body and hissed. 

“Who then challenges the Beast of Boudin Moor?” said the huge cat. “Know that none before have come close to defeating me. Cuchulain’s unnamed son tested my power.  I sliced off half his face and sent the boy wailing back to his witch mother. Sir Persant of the Round Table came sniffing after my lair, thinking I held the secret to the Holy Grail. I watered the earth with his carcass. Conn of the Hundred Battles would’ve made a hundred and one had I not stolen the life from his lungs before he could scream his battle cry.” 

“Oh, I, sir?” said Pierrot. “I am a humble clown. A tumbler and a juggler. A character to amuse, not to conquer.” 

“Your blood will taste as sweet.” 

The creature paced forward. 

“But look upon my skills, oh mighty one,” replied Pierrot. 

The clown danced back and produced his juggling balls. Throwing one, then two, then a third in the air. Keeping them in perpetual motion before his face. The beast stopped and sat, transfixed by the brightly colored balls in the air. Its poisonous tendrils looped about, in time with the cat’s eyes. Occasionally the beast lifted a shaking paw and tried to bat one of the balls out of synch, but Pierrot was too skillful and maneuvered easily around this clumsy interference. 

He stepped back and added a fourth ball. The beast quivered at the sight, nearly panting at this hypnotic display. Another step and a fifth was added. The monster didn’t know where to look, all about him were the beautiful orbs, the wonderful objects to hit and chase. Instead of the sixth ball, Pierrot slipped in the misericord. So many other things were going on, the cat didn’t notice. 

Pierrot stepped back again and appeared to slip on rock. He tumbled backwards, grabbing items out of the air. The spell was broken. The beast raised its poisonous tendrils to attack. Pierrot popped back up with perfect balance. 

He threw three objects. A red ball knocked away the right tendril. A blue one hit the left. And the dead knight’s dagger went straight down the middle, embedding itself deep in the monster’s eye and killing it stone dead.  

Pierrot picked up his balls, brushed himself off, and walked away to discover what other wonders awaited him in this land of fables.

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Rex Hurst is the author of the thriller novels The Foot Doctor Letters: A Serial Killer Speaks Out; What Hell May Come; The Aristotle Anderson series (The Demon Inside; Here to Go; The Red Dragon Fighting Society) and the sci-fi novel Across the Wounded Galaxy. They are also a co-host of the weekly radio show Write On SC about the art of writing.