The Ballad of Clown Sweater Wil
“Welcome, folks,” said the counterman. “C’mon in.”
The newcomers were a couple with two little ones — the younger a tiny girl of about three with curly brown hair who was bawling her eyes out in her father’s arms — and a pair of rumpled, bespectacled men whose demeanors’ proclaimed, proudly, “itinerant.”
“Dinner’s in. I’ll get you grown-ups drinks in a minute and for you, young man, young lady—” here the counterman tried to catch the little girl’s eyes, but she buried her face in her Dad’s collar. “—For you I have a new cask of birch beer.” He looked at the boy. “You like birch beer?” The boy nodded. “And after dinner, my man ZJ is going to take some of the dairy and the ice your coach just brought and turn a quart of ice cream for dessert! How’s that sound?” The boy smiled.
I went out to help distribute the passengers’ luggage to their cabins while ZJ offloaded the supply pallet. We re-met entering the diner. Everyone’d settled in and were finishing drinks by firelight. ZJ had fashioned a firebox inside a jukebox cabinet that had been left out back in the days before the Cataclysm, and waaay before the company hired us to run the way station. Through its colored glass panels red and orange and green light flicked around the room. Baking meatloaf smelled good. So did the pipe smoke and body odor, to be honest. This was the time of day the diner felt most homey.
The little girl cried on. I made a face at her, fishing for a smile. Her dad looked around at me and rolled his eyes.
“She’s scared of the mountains.”
“Well, they are ugly as sin,” I offered, “But there’s really nothing to be scared of, Sweetie.”
Both parents shook their heads.
“It’s been like this since Louisville,” Mom said. “We’re pretty much resigned to listen to it all the way to Buffalo.”
“This one,” said Dad, patting his son on the head, “Had a rotten little schoolmate back home who told her the Scalzorc was going to eat us.”
“The Scalzorc!?” said one of the rumpled, bespectacled itinerants. He was bright, clean-cheeked and cherubic.
“There’s no Scalzorc, is there?” asked his friend. He was dark, grizzled and dour.
“Not since Clown Sweater Wil whipped him!” proclaimed the first. “Madam,” he said, executing a quick bow, “Sir. I had—” His friend elbowed him in the butt. “—We—had no notion of the cause of the tyke’s distress on the road. We didn’t think it our place to inquire. But to think—” He sat again and looked at his friend. “To think. The misery, caused by a bit of cotton candy like the Scalzorc! Well.
“Folks,” he addressed the room, “My name is Paolo. My colleague is called Tempesta. We are traveling performers. Please allow us, as we anticipate our repast, to try and assuage the fears of this little one with a story and a song — just one. You must.”
The parents looked at each other and the father shrugged. They looked to the counterman, who gestured around the room. “Certainly,” he said, “Assuage us, everyone.”
“And perhaps, if you find our efforts of exceptional value,” Paolo said, pulling a case out from under his chair, “You’d find it worth a birch beer float?”
“I’d prefer real beer,” said Tempesta, who produced a beauty of a guitar. “No ice cream.”
The counterman propped himself on the bar with folded arms and nodded.
“You got stuff to make cheese fries?” asked Tempesta.
“Play!” Paolo commanded. Tempesta quick-tuned his strings and bowed his head. Paolo strummed a droning rhythm on a zither, intermittently drumming with his fingertips.
“You’ve heard the story of Appleseed John,” Paolo sang. “You’ve heard of Pecos Bill. You’ve heard of Molly Pitcher and the Steel-Drivin’ Man. But have you heard of Clown Sweater Wil?”
“Whooop-haw,” whooped Tempesta.
Paolo shook his head. “Don’t.”
“Fine,” said Tempesta. Then he cut loose a rousing melody.
“Wil was an orphan,” Paolo sang. “Found on the edge of town. He was taken in by a travelin’ show and raised by Biffy the Clown.”
“A nice clown, not at all scary,” Tempesta said.
“Did Wil fit in? Oh! A natural ham was he. The crowds stood and roared to see him cavort. He spread glee from the plain to the sea.
“As he grew, he took to clowning like a fat man to a pumpkin pie,” Paolo narrated over the tune, “He became a showcase talent. By the time he was 12 he was spearheading routines.”
“Wil grew up strong and happy. He was diligent, helpful and kind. One day he saved a kitten in a well — a little thing, soft as a sigh, but strong-willed and tough and the color of sourdough. He called her ‘Airbiscuit.’
“It was a fine time,” said Paolo, “Through the worst of the Cataclysm, when the land was changing and people were mutating into lighter things and darker, Wil and the troupe kept on, putting on shows and keeping spirits high.”
The boy was rapt at the performance. He ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of Paolo. The little girl had stopped crying and appeared to be hypnotized by fingers plucking strings.
Then both players stopped. The room was silent. Paolo began to tap out a new beat.
“But the heartiest group of players, musicians and clowns spreading laughter and hope can’t keep the bad things in the world at bay forever,” he said. “One day they came to the foot of this very mountain. And that’s. When it. Showed up.”
The little girl’s eyes widened, starting to fill again.
Paolo leaned in and said softly, “There can only be a happy ending if you’re brave and listen to the end. You want to help Wil whip the Scalzorc?” She nodded and stuck two fingers in her mouth. “Now listen, both of you. Here’s how you can help. When Wil is in the soup, I’ll call on you to help him with the most powerful weapon we possess. Do you know what that is?” Both children shook their heads. Paolo leaned closer, near bending himself in half. He whispered to them and they smiled.
Paolo tapped and Tempesta strummed in a martial cadence.
“Now the Scalzorc was a devil,” Paolo sang, “He was sour, squat and mean. He brooded, hating joy and music, in his hidden dark ravine.
“He was green as envy, grene as gang, green as a ripe corpse in a grave. Dressed in junk and old car seat leather, he carried a shield of beer keg staves.
“He came down from the mountains, causing maximum dismay. But he came down once too often—”
“Crossing Wil,” Tempesta interjected.
“—He’d rue the day-hay-hay-hyoooooooooooooooooooooooooh!”
“‘Rue the Day-o’ is the name of my Harry Belefonte tribute band,” said Tempesta.
The counterman and the children’s father both snorted.
“Night-cloaked he came,” Paolo said, “Maddened by the music and the lights and the laughter of the big top performance. After the last show ended … when all was still … oh, then he was on that company — like Grendel on a Dane.”
“Like a stormtrooper on a moisture farmer,” said Tempesta, “Or the Grinch on a Christmas tree.”
“I don’t remember that one,” said Paolo.
“You liar.” The two stared at each other — and then attacked their instruments again.
“The Scalzorc’s Axe of Infinite Malice swung wild. Tents were shredded, props smashed, costumes trampled by thorny orc feet. Worse, he ate all their provisions, a few sideshow exhibits and most of the clowns’ makeup.” Now the boy’s eyes widened, impressed. “Finally, the monster stuffed shovels-full of manure into the Human Cannonball’s cannon and he shot it into the circle of the caravan where everyone had been sleeping unaware. Then the Scalzorc bellowed in triumph and charged off into the dark.”
“You don’t remember the Grinch?” asked Tempesta.
Paolo continued, with one sidelong glance, “The troupe was aghast. How could someone do this? But then they made the most terrible discovery of all. It turned out that Biffy the Clown had been sleeping inside the Human Cannonball’s cannon. The poor man was half-suffocated and shot across the camp before he awoke, and then his neck was snapped by the impact of his landing. Wil was devastated, and a flame flared up inside him—the need to protect his family, and a burning desire for justice.
“The company implored him to wait, but Wil headed into the craggy foothills, dressed in a wool sweater and clown pants, and carrying only a tent stake for defense. Airbiscuit followed. For hours and hours they marched, until they reached a parched, rocky pass where the air and the earth glowed red.
“‘Biffy, help me, please. Please tell me what to do.’ The ghost of the clown appeared and said ‘Wil, it’s up to you. You have to find the way yourself, though you will have some help. You’ll need weapons — A tool or two or three. You’ll need a blade, and a strong-backed steed, and your memories of me.’”
“‘No!’” Paolo quoted quietly. “‘No, not memories. Memories are good, but I think this suits you better — Wear my likeness on your sweater.’ He disappeared, then, and at the same moment, his smiling face appeared over Wil’s garment.”
“Clown Sweater Wil!” the boy shouted, bouncing off his butt onto his knees.
“Right,” said Paolo. “Biffy’s voice filled the air. ‘Raise your spear!’ it said, and Wil raised the tent stake, which now sported a gleaming, double-edged blade at its point. ‘Mount up! Up, Airbiscuit!’ the voice cried, and to Wil’s astonishment, his little kitten ran out from behind a boulder, and as it ran it grew — grew to the size of a lioness, and huge eagle’s wings unfolded from her shoulders. She turned to look at Wil and a golden horn twirled out from her forehead.
“Another, coarser voice echoed through the pass then. Wil looked up to see a squat, green figure on a cliff edge waving an axe and hurling incoherent abuse into the air. Airbiscuit tapped him with her horn and beat her wings. Wil jumped on the cat’s back, and up she sprang. The sky darkened—”
“Storm!” sang Tempesta.
“Deep in the earth a rumble—”
“Quake!”
“In the distance, eruptions—”
“Fi-re!”
“And into that fiery sky they flew.”
“Bet he was bakin’ on that cat,” said Tempesta.
“The Scalzorc brandished his weapon,” said Paolo. “Then down winged noble Airbiscuit, Wil prepared to hurl his lance. The Scalzorc swung his Axe of Malice, and sliced a leg off brave Wil’s pants.
“Forward and back they parried and feinted, until Wil thought exhaustion would take him down.
“They battled on in the dead red light. The charging orc; the clown in flight.”
“Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t enough. He needed something more. And then it occurred to him — what did the Scalzorc hate and fear most?”
“Happiness!” shouted the boy.
“Yes!” said Paolo. “But how could Wil attack the Scalzorc with happiness?” He looked at the little girl and wiggled his eyebrows.
“LAUGH!” she yelled.
“Laugh! Help him out — laugh — laugh like a clown!”
“Hee-hyuck,” they giggled, “Hee-hyuck! Hee-hyuck!”
“Wil felt invigorated, with a new enthusiasm. They flew around and with your help laughed that Scalzorc right into a chasm!”
The children cheered. Then the regulars at the back joined in, and soon we were all clapping.
“The fight was over; the threat at last seemed gone,” Paolo sang. “But without a body Wil couldn’t be sure. So he vowed eternal vigilance to help a little peace enduuuuuure.”
At the very second Paolo’s voice closed on the note, a mighty roar shook the diner. Glass broke. Furniture flew. Above a continuing rumble we heard animals complaining and the hiss of water spraying somewhere.
“What—?” croaked ZJ from behind the counter. He was pointing at the window.
We picked ourselves up and headed outside. We saw, far to the north, an angry red sky reflecting reawakened volcanoes.
Closer in, on a rock ledge up the foothills, a squat green figure in leather and metal stood brandishing a weapon and shouting incoherent abuse down the valley.
I removed my overcoat and looked back at the little girl. Her eyes were wide and wet, but she wasn’t crying anymore. To the contrary, she broke into a grin and held up a chubby hand.
“Hee-hyuck!” she laughed.
I smiled and nodded and ran.
“Up, Airbiscuit!” I shouted. My cat leaped off her perch on a barrel and as she leaped she ballooned to lion size. Her eagle wings stretched out and flapped once, twice. As her paws touched the ground, the helical golden horn spun out from her brow. I yanked a post out from beside the gate, freeing the gleaming spear head. I jumped onto Airbiscuit’s back and we sprang into the air. I heard the people below shouting “Hee-hyuck! Hee-hyuck!” and Paolo and Tempesta playing my song.
Up we flew, through the crags, in pursuit of the wily Scalzorc.
