Ned’s Circus of Marvels

Benissimo’s whip snapped at the cage bars, seemingly without the Ringmaster moving.

“Any more of that and I’ll order our boy Finn here to give you a bath with his lions,” he warned.

The man cowered at the Ringmaster’s glare and the cage was covered up again. Ned was shocked by Benissimo’s ferocity. Could they really treat a person like that? Weren’t there rules and laws for that kind of thing?

“Don’t be fooled by its human form. That’s the level fifteen our pinstripes called us in for. Thankfully the threat of soap is usually enough to calm them before it comes to blows. Ours is a dangerous path, boy, and requires a firm hand to keep it straight.”

Ned looked at the man in front of him as he strode on once more, a towering mast in a sea of monsters. One thing seemed certain – the Ringmaster would do anything to keep the shadows, as he’d called them, at bay.

As they passed the big top, the troupe were now going through rigorous training. Though not entirely of the traditional circus kind. Grandpa Tortellini and his seven grandchildren were up on the high-wire, which of course made Ned’s stomach churn. At one end of the arena, another group of men and women were scaling a wall in what looked like blindfolds, which was when Ned realised that those in the air also had their eyes completely covered.

Directly in front of them, Monsieur Couteau – the master swordsman – was drilling several troupe members in armed combat using charmed axes, silver swords and even flame-tipped spears. As Ned watched he demonstrated the effectiveness of what he called runes, by throwing a small square of engraved stone at a wooden dummy. A moment later the dummy had turned to a pile of ash. A small group of them, moving together like a well-oiled machine, were children even younger than Ned. It was abundantly clear that safely trapping beasts was not always an option.

“How … how old is she?” Ned stammered, pointing to one of the smallest.

“Daisy is a smidge over seven. We get them going as early as possible. Without proper training, one’s life expectancy around here is practically nil. You, pup, are quite woefully in that category, and if you’re to stay safe or be of any use, you’ll have to get in there and test your own metal soon enough.”

Ned knew screwdrivers not swords and wasn’t sure he had any “metal” to be tested.

“This isn’t a circus, it’s … it’s an army,” said Ned.

For a moment, the rock-hard swagger slipped from Benissimo’s face, and was replaced with the same tinge of disappointment he’d seen in the Ringmaster’s eyes on Kitty’s bus.

“You need an army to fight a war, boy. Even the ones you have no hope of winning.”

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Whiskers (#ulink_a83ccfa0-1e1a-5d64-b3a1-986728c2db2a)

Ned’s head was spinning when at last they stopped by one of the circus’s larger vehicles. Benissimo punched numbers into a keypad and its door slid open.

“I’m going to have our head of R&D – research and development – cast an eye over your box. If my nose is right, you’ll need to make a choice. Now, pup, the Tinker is a minutian. Minutians can make most anything from anything, but they’re sensitive about their size. DO NOT, by all that is holy, say the word ‘gnome’ in his presence. There are gadgets in there that could blow up half of Europe if you make him angry.”

From the expression on Benissimo’s face, it was quite clear that he was not joking.

Inside the lorry, machines whirred and spun, bottles bubbled with strange liquids and every available surface was covered in notes, diagrams and mechanical contraptions. It made Ned’s eyes water. His dad would have loved it; every gadget, every blueprint, every complex contraption. This was the kind of place that Terry Waddlesworth would have lost himself in for weeks. And when Ned was younger, he would have sat there with him, copying every move with a wrench or screwdriver. A part of Ned that he had forgotten was still there suddenly longed for his old hobby, and his dad, and the way things had been before.

“Wow!” he breathed. “Look at all this gear! You really could make anything in here!”

Ned ran his hand along the nearest machine, a hydraulic press, marvelling at its unique design. Ned noticed that the Ringmaster seemed to be eyeing him curiously.

“Ahem, no touching the equipment, thank you,” said a voice.

At the room’s centre was a table where a man, no more than four feet tall, was working. On his head were various goggles, glasses and light fittings, and nearly every pocket of his white lab coat was stuffed with tools. He had a smattering of grey bristles that led into the beginnings of a patchy beard. Though Ned had never seen a real one before, he looked exactly the way he thought a gnome should look; small and rather hairy.

“Tinker, this is … the boy.”

‘The boy’ rolled off Benissimo’s tongue in much the same way as ‘the problem’ might have come from a plumber while inspecting a blocked drain.

“Ahhhh, so you’re Mr Widdlewats?” the diminutive inventor said, peering up at him through a particularly large lens.

But Ned hadn’t heard a word. Lying on the workbench in one of his more stationary positions was an unexpected sight – his pet mouse Whiskers.

“You found him! Whiskers, I’ve been worried sick!”

Finally, something that made sense, something he recognised. The Waddlesworths’ beloved pet mouse was safe and had found him!

But the Tinker did not let him enjoy the moment for long.

“Whiskers? Oh no, Mr Widdlewats, this is no ‘Whiskers’, this is a Ticker, a Debussy Mark 12, to be exact. Top of the line in its time, or at least was until yesterday.”

“Debussy Mark what? That’s my mouse, I’d know him anywhere!”

“How old is your mouse, Mr Widdlewats?”

“Not sure, but he’s definitely older than me.”

“And how many mice do you know that live to be that age, sir?”

“Um, well, Dad always said he was special.”

“Indeed he is. This little fella arrived at the green just a short while after you. Would have got there quicker too, if an ice-cream truck hadn’t run him over.”

The Tinker took a needle-thin screwdriver and twisted it into the mouse’s back. He then carefully peeled away some fur, revealing an ornate maze of coiled springs, turning cogs and tiny metal pistons. The rodent’s eyes flickered white for a split second, which was followed by a whirring of gears as it moved its head from left to right, before slumping back down again. Ned watched in stunned silence.

“Oh Whiskers, not you too …”

The Tinker fetched him a small stool and he slumped down on to it.

“How long till it’s operational?” asked Benissimo.

“Well, boss, it’s not quite as bad as it looks. I’ve pinched some parts off the Punch and Judy show and I should have him up and running by the morning.”

“Operational?” said Ned. “What is he … I mean, what’s ‘it’ for?”

“Tickers come in as many forms as you can imagine. They make great pets for the rich, and tireless workers. They make terrifying soldiers too, till that was outlawed. Their greatest use these days is undercover work. This model in particular was very popular for surveillance,” explained the Tinker.

Ned couldn’t believe his ears. His pet mouse, a full third of his dysfunctional family, was made of metal.

“Magical creatures, clockwork soldiers and … undercover mice? Why hasn’t anyone heard of this, of these … things?” asked Ned.

At that the Tinker looked rather surprised.

“Well, because of us, sir. We monitor it all, you see, every creature and every sighting. Anyone outside of our lot who sees anything is immediately visited by our pinstripes.”

“Like the two men outside, the ones with the flutes?”

“Precisely, sir, only they’re not really flutes.”