The Juggler - John Morressy.pdf - ebooks [ENG] - bladydzik

INTRODUCTION

The Benevolence of Count Osostro

The count Osostro enjoyed unlimited power in his domain, and he wielded his power with the caprice of a

godling. He could spare a life with one breath and impose death with the next, dispense on one and the

same occasion joy with his left hand and misery with his right. He could smile and be cruel; he could frown

and be kind.

His deeds had become legend. It was said that on the same day he had in the morning taken up an aging

widow found shivering at the gate of his palace, established her in his household, and ordered her marriage

to one of his nobles, and that very afternoon had a beggar bludgeoned to death for crossing his path. The

ways of the count Osostro were indeed unpredictable.

He loved diversions of every kind. He was fond of novelty, and those who provided him with new

de-lights were certain of a generous reward. Those who disappointed him were unfailingly punished in

some ingenious way. His rewards were so extravagant that many were willing to risk his displeasure on the

chance that they might enjoy his bounty. As the years passed, and the count found ever more unusual ways

of expressing his dissatisfaction, the number of those who ventured to offer new amusements diminished,

but never entirely ceased.

One year, in the drab and shrunken days before the onset of winter, the count was beset by boredom. He

had enjoyed no new sport during the summer and fall, and he knew that he could look forward to fewer

visi-tors, perhaps none at all, through the coming months of cold and snow. His mood grew ever darker.

The court and the common people feared that the count might soon seek distraction in ways they would find

disagreeable.

Then the juggler came. He had not been seen on the high road or in any of the outlying villages or

settlements, nor had any of the guards at the out-posts had any word of him. He simply appeared in the city

one chilly day, took his place on a barrel head in a comer of the market square, and, without fan-fare or

announcement or any word at all, began to juggle.

He was a stranger of unprepossessing appearance and uncertain age, tall and slender and hollow

cheeked, with hair the color of old straw and a face lined by long exposure to wind and weather. His

clothing was dusty and frayed, his boots cracked, his lean pack worn and patched. Yet he was someone

new, and within minutes a crowd encircled him, and before long all other activity had ceased. Buyers and

sellers alike forgot their mercantile interests and clustered around, jostling and pushing, to marvel at the

aston-ishing feats of the juggler.

He began simply enough, with three daggers. Before long it was apparent that he was juggling more than

three, but no one had seen him introduce another. Four, five, six daggers, perhaps more, were soon

whirl-ing and flashing above their heads. The juggler caught the eye of a child who stood at the edge of the

crowd, entranced. At a nod from him she tossed him her doll, and immediately it was weaving its way

among the blades. At his silent bidding, a young woman threw him a glove, and a man tossed him an empty

mug. They, too, joined the shower of diverse objects.

All this time, though his lips moved silently, the juggler had said not a word. He did not, as some

moun-tebanks and conjurers do, keep up a lively patter. He did not feign great effort or adopt a look of

intense concentration. His brow was unfurrowed and his pale eyes were fixed before him. Save for a smile

to the little girl, his expression had not varied. Indeed, he might almost have been described as having no

ex-pression at all. He seemed an onlooker to his own deeds, uninvolved and unimpressed, like a workman

performing a difficult task for the thousandth time, out of sheer habit doing it with consummate grace and

skill.

He stopped abruptly, catching the doll, the glove, and the mug in his hands while the daggers, seven of

them, tattooed into the rim of the barrel head in a neat semicircle. The crowd burst into loud applause and

cheering. A few tossed small coins to the makeshift platform and the adjacent ground. The juggler bowed,

returned the items to their owners, and sprang lightly down to gather his reward. Several in the crowd

called for more, but before the appeal spread, or the juggler could respond to it, the onlookers were thrust

aside and a burly guardsman pushed his way through to confront the juggler.

"When did you enter the city?" the guardsman de-manded.

"This very morning," said the juggler, rising from his knees.

"You will come with us to the palace and perform for our master, the count Osostro."

"As you wish," said the juggler. He took up his daggers, shouldered his meager pack, and, at the

guardsman's back, set out for the palace.

That night, before Count Osostro, he repeated his performance of the marketplace. The count was

pleased. Two nights later, the juggler astonished ev-eryone with the spectacle of little crystal spheres that

seemed to appear in his hands from nowhere and flashed in a ring of brilliant ever-changing colors under

the blaze of torches and candles, only to meta-morphose one by one in midair into roses of varied colors.

His third performance climaxed when the eggs he had been juggling, no bigger than the ball of his thumb,

broke one by one and a tiny bird, singing sweetly, flew from each to circle the count's head and perch on

the back of his throne.

Each time he performed, the juggler astounded his audience with some new and unexpected feat. But

even the skills of a master could not delight for long a man of the count's demanding tastes. One evening, in

the midst of the juggler's act, he grew bored and, on a whim, tossed a silver goblet to him. The juggler

caught it without spilling a drop and managed to incorporate it into the rainbow of crystal vessels flashing

above his head. The count, angered, seized another goblet and flung it, and then, very quickly, another. The

juggler caught the second, but the third, thrown with the count's full force, struck him on the forehead and

blinded him momentarily with the wine. He staggered,- his rhythm broke, and a rain of vessels and goblets

fell to the floor around him, the crystal shivering to bits, the goblets clattering and bouncing. Wine from the

goblets soaked his tunic and spattered on the nearest guests.

The count laughed loudly in the sudden silence. "So, you're not so skilled after all," he said. He dis-missed

the juggler with a contemptuous "Away, char-latan," and a flick of his hand, and the juggler bowed and left

the hall.

Next day he was nowhere to be found. When the count Osostro learned of the juggler's absence, he flew

into a rage. The man had entered his domain without permission, and the count had overlooked the

trans-gression. For him to dare to leave in the same manner was intolerable. The count Osostro did not

permit anyone to presume upon his forbearance.

Guards were dispatched. The juggler was found on the high road, still within sight of the walls, and

brought to the palace. He was taken before the count, and awaited judgment with an impassive expression.

"On the seven nights that you appeared before me, you entertained me. For that I will reward you. First

with this purse of gold," said the count, tossing the juggler a purse the size of a large apple. The juggler took

it up and dropped to one knee to acknowledge the count's generosity. The courtiers murmured in

appro-bation and praise.

"I am not done," said the count. "As a further re-ward, I will allow you to choose which hand you are to

lose as punishment for leaving my domain without permission."

The hall was still in an instant. The juggler blinked and paled slightly, but showed no other reaction. He

extended his hands before him, looking from one to the other. After a pause he said, "It must be the count's

own decision."

"If you refuse to make the choice, I will have your right hand."

The juggler closed his eyes and sighed. "Let it be so."

The count smoothed his short red beard thoughtfully and studied the man before him. "Then you are

left-handed ... or you wish me to think you are. Which is it?"

"I am not left-handed."

The count remained silent for a time,- then he de-clared, "I have pronounced my judgment. Let his right

hand be struck off." The guards took the juggler by either arm. No one else moved. The hall remained

silent. The count turned to his chamberlain, who stood beside the seat of judgment, and said, "Do you think

me too severe?"

The chamberlain was a decent man at heart, but he had learned to be circumspect in answering his

mas-ter's questions. "Your Excellency's justice is beyond question. And yet ... a lesser punishment might

perhaps have served the purpose, and Your Excel-lency would be able to enjoy further displays of the

man's skill."

The count laughed and shook his head. "Had I spared his hand, the fellow would still be able to per-form

for others. And since none is as capable of appre-ciating his skill or as generous in rewarding it as I, he

would in time find himself before a less satisfactory audience. I have spared him a bitter disappointment."

The chamberlain bowed. "Your Excellency is judi-cious indeed."

"However, if anyone here feels that I have been unduly severe, then I will allow that gentle soul to offer

his hand, or hers, in place of the juggler's," said the count. He scanned the hall slowly, a faint, expec-tant

smile on his face. Few met his glance and no one spoke. His eyes came to rest on the juggler. "The others

do not question my sentence. Do you?"

"No."

"Then my justice is manifest to all. Let it be done."

The sentence was carried out that very day. The count's physician attended, binding the stump of the

severed hand and seeing that the juggler was cared for until he was fit to travel.

Next day, the count went hunting with his nobles. Though the hunt was successful, he returned to his

palace in a dark mood and kept to himself for two full days, not emerging from his chamber in all that time.

He was heard to call out in the night, but he dismissed the guards who rushed to his aid.

At the end of five days, he visited the juggler, who was by now recovered from his ordeal. The physician,

present on the count's order, was astonished to see the count take a small crystal jar from a pocket of his

robe and hold it up.

"This ointment will ease the pain and assist in heal-ing. I want it to be used, and used generously, for this

man's relief," said the count, placing it in the physi-cian's hand.

"But Your Excellency, this is the rarest of-" the physician began.

The count silenced him with "Do as I bid you." He drew forth a purse of gold larger than the first he had

given the juggler, and laid it on the stones beside his victim's pallet.

"This is for you. You are free to leave whenever you choose. You are not a prisoner," the count told him.

"I will travel tomorrow, if it is your will," said the juggler.

"Let it be as you desire. You will have a horse, a fine gray gelding from my own stables."

The juggler looked at him in surprise, then knelt. "Your Excellency is most generous."

The count took him up and clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of amity. "I have dispensed justice. It

is my duty. Now I may show mercy. You understand that, do you not? What I did to you was just, was it

not?"

"You have been just to me," said the juggler.

"Do you hear that, all of you?" said the count, turn-ing first to the physician and then to the guards who

stood by the door. "This man does not question my sentence." To the juggler he said, "Go then, and go in

safety. You shall bear a letter that places you under my protection. No one will dare to raise a hand against

you."

Before the juggler could express his thanks, the count turned and strode from the chamber. When the

guards stepped to one side, the count stopped and mo-tioned for them to walk ahead. As the men passed

down the corridor, the physician saw the count glance back twice, quickly and nervously, as if he expected

to see someone stealing up behind him.

The juggler left early the following morning. He wore new boots and a new outfit of fine cloth, gifts of

the count Osostro. The gray gelding had been fitted out with a splendid saddle and harness. The

sad-dlebags were filled with provisions, and a thick new blanket was rolled up behind. Tucked inside the

jug-gler's tunic was a letter of safe passage bearing the count's own seal. He passed through the gate, onto

the western road, and was never seen in the count's do-main again.

THE VILLAGE

Beran was the youngest of twelve children, six of whom were living. His oldest sisters were married to

men of the village. His youngest sister, Joan, two years older than he, worked in the kitchen at Sir Morier's

castle. Beran and his brother, Rolf, a year older than he, remained at home and worked the land with their

parents.

His oldest brother had gone off to serve the king when Beran was still very small. He had returned once

to visit them, and when the others were thought to be asleep, he had given his parents prizes he had taken

during a campaign: a purse of gold and silver coins, and a gold ring with a red stone in it. Beran, lying awake, hoped

to hear the story of the battle, but his brother said no more. The prizes were carefully hidden, and no one

was to be told about them.

The village stood on a broad plateau just below the hilltop, the houses clustered together for safety.

Everyone was near enough to hear his neighbor raise the hue and cry and come to his aid, and all could

remove quickly to the castle in time of danger. The village held nearly two hundred people in its thirty-seven

houses, each house with its garden plot in the adjoining croft. Beran's family had one of the best cottages in

the village. It was thirty feet by six-teen, with solid corner posts, two windows, and two doors.

The villagers worked hard, and their work was well rewarded. The land was rich and fertile and the

weather was clement. Harvests in recent years had been abundant. The animals were healthy and

pro-duced many young. Some of the old people talked of winters when entire families had starved or frozen

to death in their homes, of rains that washed away a year's harvest in a single day, and of plagues that

killed the pigs and cattle, but the younger ones had never seen such thingsl As far back as Beran could

remem-ber, there had always been food to eat, even in the winter. His family was especially fortunate,

because Joan sometimes brought home scraps from the castle kitchen.

Sir Morier was a righteous man and a good protec-tor. He dispensed justice fairly, if severely. He was

generous in allowing his villagers firewood, and made no impossible demands on their labor, as some great

ones were said to do. He often visited the villagers and talked with them, and Beran had seen him work at

his father's side.

There was always talk of war, but the wars were something distant, fought in foreign lands for

un-fathomable reasons against men different from them-selves. The villagers felt secure against the

enemies of their king and lord, and from hunger and disease and the bands of lawless men who were said

to roam the land. Life in the village was good, they said-certainly it was as good as any of them expected

life on this earth to be-and they had much to be thankful for.

Beran was small of frame, but very quick and agile, with sharp eyes and deft hands. He had the patience

and tenacity of a cat by a mouse hole. When some-thing interested him, or puzzled him, he could sit for

hours working on it until he had solved its mystery. Sir Morier himself had once called him "The

Philoso-pher," and told the boy that he would send him to the university, where people did nothing but sit all

day and think about things, but Beran knew that this was all a joke. The university was as remote from his

life as were the stars. He would live out his life in the vil-lage, marry the woman chosen for him, raise his

fam-ily and work for as long as he was able, grow old and die, and be buried in the little plot where his

brothers and sisters lay. He was neither happy nor unhappy at the prospect; it was the way things would be,

and he accepted it without question. One might as well question the rising and setting of the sun.

One day he went to the market town with his father and about a score of men from the village to attend a

fair. They took a well-marked trail through the wood and were wary every step of the way. All the men

wore daggers at their belts. Some carried cudgels. It was Beran's first time away from the village. He was

a little frightened, but when at last they came to the fair and he saw the people, more people than he had

ever seen in his life, and all of them busy and noisy and bustling about, his fear gave way to excitement. His

father appointed a meeting place, then went about his busi-ness and left Beran to his own devices. The boy

wan-dered wide-eyed through the crowds, drinking in the unfamiliar sights and sounds.

He quickly accustomed himself to the stir and the color, the shouting and calling back and forth, the

strange people and the animals and the loud laughter. Except for greater numbers and the odd dress of

some, the fair was not, after all, so very different from his village on a feast day. There was really only one

great difference, and he soon discovered it: A company of traveling players had set up a couple of planks

for a platform, with a brightly painted cloth as backdrop, and were performing. Beran squeezed his way

through the crowd up to the very front, where he watched in fascination. He had never seen anything like

this in his life, never heard of such things, never dreamed that such people existed.

A man in colorful clothing bent over backward, far-ther and farther, until it seemed he must fall down, but

instead of falling, he kept on bending until he was able to thrust his head out between his knees and make

faces at the crowd, all the while saying things to make them laugh. He then planted his elbows on the

plat-form, took up a drum, and, balancing it atop his head, began to beat out a rhythm with his feet while he

rested on his forearms, his chin cupped in his hands. A woman in a long dress covered with ribbons did a

slow dance to the drumbeat. She made colored scarfs flutter about her in curling patterns. When the dance

was done, she flung up her hands and the scarfs all vanished at once. Beran cried out in astonishment, but

she was not done. She plucked a bright red scarf out of the air, rolled it up, and put it in her mouth, and then

breathed out flame. She did this several times, sending a stream of fire farther than the reach of her

outstretched finger-tips. When she was done making fire, she drew all the scarfs from her mouth, one by

one, unscorched and as bright as ever. After that, she did other tricks, mak-ing things disappear and then

reappear in unexpected places, taking a coin out of one man's ear and a squawk-ing hen from another's hood. Beran

was beside himself with amazement and delight.

The man then came forward, threw three brightly colored balls into the air, and began to juggle them,

arcing them back and forth between his hands. The woman threw him a fourth ball, and he worked it into

the pattern, and then she threw a fifth. By now the balls were a colored blur. The man sank down to a

kneeling position, then seated himself on a little stool that the woman had moved into place behind him. He

climbed onto the stool and tilted it until it was bal-anced on one leg. He then balanced himself on one foot

atop the stool. Finally, he sprang off to his feet again, all the time without dropping a ball.

Beran watched the steady shuttling motion of his hands, studying every move, unable to take his eyes

away. He had never seen a man juggle before, and it impressed him more than all the other feats. When

the man caught the five balls in his hands and gave a loud laugh, and the crowd cried out their approval,

Beran could not contain himself. He sprang up and shouted, "I want to do that!"

The crowd all laughed, and the juggler dropped to one knee, looked down on the boy, and said, "So you

want to be a juggler, do you?"

Beran had never heard the word before. He could only say, "I want to do what you do!"

The man and the woman laughed, and the crowd laughed along with them. Someone took Beran under

the arms and swung him up to the platform. He did not understand what was funny, but he laughed along

with the rest.

"How much can you pay for lessons?" the man asked.

"He looks like a rich one. I bet he has plenty," the woman said, and the crowd laughed some more.

"I have a piece of bread," Beran said.

The juggler staggered back, as if astonished. "I've found a wealthy patron! I'll buy a palace and fill it with

servants! I'll never work again!" he said, reeling drunkenly about the platform.

"First you'll buy me fine clothes and jewels," the woman said, strutting about the stage in an imitation of a

grand lady displaying her finery.

"Will you show me?" Beran asked.

"Teach him to juggle!" someone called out from the crowd. Others took up the cry. The man raised his

hands to silence them, and announced, "Only because I have been offered such a generous reward, such a

lavish gift, will I reveal to this lad the secret of my art. But first, may I have the bread?" he said, turning to

Beran and bowing deeply.

Beran took the scrap of bread from his scrip. The man lifted it high, turned it over, examined it back and

front, sniffed it, made a face, and as the crowd laughed louder and louder, he pretended to bite into it, then

roared and held his jaw as if he had broken it. Maneuvering his jaw from side to side, he said, "How long

have you been carrying that bread around, boy?"

"Only since this morning."

The man turned to the crowd with an expression of disbelief; then he took a real bite and chewed slowly,

making faces all the time, until he had finished the bread. Then he rubbed his hands together briskly and

said, "Now I will teach this boy to juggle. Let the lessons begin!"

He tossed a brightly colored ball to Beran. It was surprisingly light. "Throw it up in the air and catch it

with the other hand," he said. Beran did so, and the juggler turned to the crowd and said, "Behold, a natu-ral

talent! He juggles one ball with the skill of a mas-ter!" He threw Beran a second ball and said, "Toss them

from hand to hand, one after the other." Beran again did as the man bid, and the crowd shouted and

cheered. "A prodigy!" the juggler cried. "A wonder! Now, if he can do as well with three as he can with

two ..." He tossed a third ball. With a ball in each hand, Beran tried to catch the third, but missed it and

dropped one of the others. The man picked it up and handed it to him, then stood with his hands on his hips,

looking at him impatiently. "Well, go ahead. Juggle. Don't you want to learn to juggle?" he said.

Beran threw all three balls into the air and caught one. The others went rolling about the platform. He

chased them and gathered them up. He tried again, throwing one, and then another, but dropping both when

he tossed up the third. The crowd was laughing now, and calling out to him.

"Keep them in the air, boy, not on the ground!" someone in the crowd shouted, and other voices fol-lowed.

"He's no juggler!"

"Show us the real thing!"

The juggler shrugged his shoulders. Bending low, he said softly, "You heard the people, boy. They've

seen all they want of you."

"Won't you teach me?"

"You've had all the lessons you can buy for a piece of bread. If you want me to teach you, bring me

silver."

The woman quickly added, "For both of us. A silver stater each, and we'll teach you everything we

know."

"I don't have silver."

"Then you'll grow oats and barley all your life, boy. Away with you now." The juggler lifted him by the

waist and swung him high, then let him down lightly at the front of the crowd.

Beran said nothing of this adventure to his father. When they were home again, he told his brother

every-thing. Rolf, still angry that Beran and not he had gone to the market, said that Beran had been

foolish. Rolf had once heard tell of a juggler-the very same one, he believed-and he told Beran that a boy

like him could never learn to do such things.

"Why not?"

"Those people are different from us. They're in league with the devil, I've heard."

Beran thought for a time. "Maybe the woman was, but not the juggler. He didn't do anything magical. I

could learn to do it."

The Juggler - John Morressy.pdf

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