In the middle of the marshlands the remains of a circus lie, half sunken in the soft peat and stagnant pools of algae-coated water. Once upon a time it held the name "Concetto Canalli's Carnevale" and toured the back roads of Europe, having only mild success and more debt collectors than they could shake off.
It isn't too hard to imagine them being hounded out of every town they visited in their later years, too disturbed by the paranoia that they might be caught and jailed (a death sentence to all, in those days). Perhaps the sight of a quiet, foggy marsh made them think of their homes or perhaps it seemed a safe place to hide?
Who can say if they even woke from their sleep before their livelihood was swallowed by the land, leaving only the partial remains of their caravans, tents and the few mechanical rides they hadn't yet been forced to sell. Still, the rumours had to begin somewhere, the story had to be told by someone and what better person than Canalli himself.
Being the ringmaster he would have been last to sleep and first to rise, always half-awake just in case the debt collectors drew too close. Would it be too far-fetched to picture him waking as his caravan began to pitch as it gradually rolled into the airless depths of the marsh? Would his screams have carried over the howling winds, alerting his troupe to their immediate peril or would he have been too late?
How long would he have stood on the roof of his caravan, caught between desperately shrieking for the people he'd come to know as family and looking for a way to reach the marshes' shallows? How many of his loved ones awoke trapped and gasping for air that wasn't there, banging on walls buried too deep to carry sound, breaking windows only to be smothered alive by a tidal wave of moist peat?
Through the very tip of the largest tent, light faintly shines through and the muffled laughter of the long dead circus echoes out around the marshland as they perform for an unimaginable audience, free from debt, from strife and from life.
It isn't too hard to imagine them being hounded out of every town they visited in their later years, too disturbed by the paranoia that they might be caught and jailed (a death sentence to all, in those days). Perhaps the sight of a quiet, foggy marsh made them think of their homes or perhaps it seemed a safe place to hide?
Who can say if they even woke from their sleep before their livelihood was swallowed by the land, leaving only the partial remains of their caravans, tents and the few mechanical rides they hadn't yet been forced to sell. Still, the rumours had to begin somewhere, the story had to be told by someone and what better person than Canalli himself.
Being the ringmaster he would have been last to sleep and first to rise, always half-awake just in case the debt collectors drew too close. Would it be too far-fetched to picture him waking as his caravan began to pitch as it gradually rolled into the airless depths of the marsh? Would his screams have carried over the howling winds, alerting his troupe to their immediate peril or would he have been too late?
How long would he have stood on the roof of his caravan, caught between desperately shrieking for the people he'd come to know as family and looking for a way to reach the marshes' shallows? How many of his loved ones awoke trapped and gasping for air that wasn't there, banging on walls buried too deep to carry sound, breaking windows only to be smothered alive by a tidal wave of moist peat?
Through the very tip of the largest tent, light faintly shines through and the muffled laughter of the long dead circus echoes out around the marshland as they perform for an unimaginable audience, free from debt, from strife and from life.
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