Prologue
The horse trundled his cart proudly along the high street of another small market town, glancing at the shoppers and gossipers with the superior haughtiness common to his species. He stopped in the middle of the square, ostensibly at the instruction of his driver but in truth repetition of performance informed his actions. It was a beautiful day in early October and the sun shone down on him, warming his coat in spite of the crisp air. The cart itself was brightly painted wood, bedecked with varicoloured ribbons. The people native to the town gave a variety of responses to this oddity in their midst. Some hurried past, returning to work after their lunch hour and barely giving the cart a second glance. Some pointed out the sight to their children, glad of a distraction for bored toddlers in pushchairs, resistant to the continuation of imprisonment behind five point harnesses. Some stopped to watch as a man in the back of the cart upended himself and walked on his hands along its length before somersaulting onto the pavement. He then pulled four small balls from his pockets and began to juggle them, much to the delight of a little girl who giggled excitedly and clapped her hands. She was fascinated not only by his dexterity but also by his brightly coloured costume of patchwork in dozens of clashing patterns and fabrics. The juggler’s companions also jumped down from the cart and began to entertain the growing crowd with cartwheels and magic tricks. They were attired in similarly dazzling clothes, form-fitting and flexible to allow for their acrobatics, with kerchiefs tied round their hair. The driver stood up on the small seat at the front of the cart. He was more formally dressed than the others, although his costume was similarly incongruous. It consisted of a white lawn shirt, red waistcoat and yellow cravat, a tweed jacket, brown knee britches and a narrow brimmed red hat. Many of the onlookers noticed that he wore neither stockings nor shoes, which seemed strange particularly in view of the month. Bowing grandly and doffing his hat, he began to address the audience.
“We invite you, one and all, to join us, The Travellers of Elsewhere, for an evening of magic and wonder. You will see things your eyes will not believe and hear stories that will transport you to faraway lands and distant times long forgotten. You will believe once again in enchantments and yearn to throw off the oppressive doubt of this modern world.”
His friends began to hand out paper flyers as he continued in his loud, clear voice that held a hint of an accent which was difficult to identify. He told stories of magic and adventure; weaving vivid pictures in their minds with the practiced skill of a great raconteur he conveyed them to mysterious realms where their imaginations encountered strange creatures and fascinating people. He finished with an invitation.
“Follow the directions on your flyers to arrive at our encampment by eight o’clock this evening. The charge is minimal for an evening which, I promise, you will never forget!”
With that the driver sat down again and flicked the reins, calling out “Walk on, George”. The horse harrumphed his disdain at the implication that he might need to be informed when the performance was over. He started to pull the nearly empty cart away from the crowd of onlookers and the others followed him, handing out flyers to the adults and sweeties to the children as they went. An excited buzz was left in their wake as people discussed the spectacle, watching the group walk, ride and somersault down the road.
