Talent Show
aka Melford & His Many Sons
The glass balls were whirling in the air, slightly slick to the touch as the juggler threw and caught, threw and caught, staying in the rhythm of the aerial circle as he worked…a sheen of sweat glistened on his face and slid over the greasepaint daubed here and there, down into the collar of his shabby but gaily colored robe. There were seven balls in total, each one a different color or pattern…reds, blues, spotted, striped; a dizzying array were in motion above the juggler’s head as he worked, a small group of young boys sitting quietly a few feet before him watching his every move with sunken eyes in thin, drawn faces.
The juggler’s attention seemed divided as his hands whirled, and he glanced down now and again to cast his eyes over the boys, taking in the details of their faces as they stared up at him. Faster and faster his hands moved, the balls a cascade above him…the only sounds the muted slap of glass against palm as he caught and threw the balls, and here and there a quiet murmur from somewhere off toward the sides of the room, a scraping of knife against plate or a cup clinking against a table. A trickle of sweat tiptoed to the corner of his eye as he looked upwards again at the balls…the trickle briefly held in stasis by the mesh of eyelashes, then suddenly flowing in to prick his eye with a salty sting. That briefest moment of distraction from his practiced movements, and the quiet of the chamber was broken by a sharp clunk as a bright red ball slipped from his hands, falling to the floor to bounce and roll several feet away…and then a smash as a second ball followed, this one shattering against the stone floor. There was a hush as the juggler deftly caught the remaining balls one by one, closing his eyes as he clutched them to his chest so he could not see the shards of glass lying on the floor at his feet.
A guard clad in mail shambled forward, his heavy boots grinding against some of the smaller bits that had splintered outwards, and bent with a creak of leather and rustle of chain to peer at the ruin of the juggling ball.
“Yellow, with black stripes,” he called out, and the juggler’s already closed eyes clenched even tighter, a new sting burning beyond the sweat. One of the boys sitting in the group at his feet stood up, a child of perhaps eight years, wearing a rough yellow jerkin with black stripes, and the guard moved nearer. The next sound in the chamber was a quick whisper of blade against flesh, then a splashing, and rattling gasps which quickly became somehow quieter than the silence that had preceded them.
The rest of the boys stood and the juggler opened his eyes, all facing the large gilded table at the end of the chamber, and a brief smattering of disinterested applause came from the nobles arranged at the side as the group bowed towards the King before turning and making their way to the door, where a man in a thick dark satin doublet stood. He handed a loaf of crusty bread to the juggler, who immediately broke it into chunks, handing one piece to each boy as they exited.
A scullery maid had already scurried forward from the shadows and was scrubbing the pooling blood from the flagstones, sopping it up with rags to be rinsed in a bucket of water, immediately turning it a vivid crimson. Padding softly over to the window she turned the handle and pushed it open, and abruptly the sounds of cries and pleadings for food from the throngs in the streets far below filled the castle chamber…quickly emptying the bucket outside, the maid pulled the casement closed and the sound was cut off as with a knife.
As the last of the boys and the juggler himself filed out of the room, the man in the dark vestments at the door held the roll of parchment in his hands aloft and spoke in loud ringing tones, “Melford & His Many Sons.”
The nobles continued their conversations without glancing up, eating and drinking as the tallow candles on each table flickered.
Unrolling the parchment a little further, the herald continued, “Next for your pleasure, your majesty, noble lords and ladies…Precious Polly and her Prancing Puppies.”
The King straightened a bit in his chair, his half-lidded eyes brightening as a murmur of anticipation rippled through the assembly…THIS was going to be good.