Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Forty-Three: Nomadic

Being in the carnival means I live a life on the road; dusty clouds kicking up behind rickety wagons, a broth of black vehicular fumes chugging from exhausts, the metal rides clanking as they're transported down uneven tracks. Crammed in beside the crates and the sacks and the rest of the carnies, we'd play rounds of poker to make the time pass.

Watching the scenery of North America glide by with a fan of cards in my hand was leisurely, even if the wind stunk of diesel and the space was cramped. I was among friends and family; teaching the young 'uns - the second generation of carnies - how to gamble and jesting with the older ones. Between stacking chips and raking in bets of jewellery and wallets, I'd watch the world go by; towns and countryside.

Even if I did spend my life in transit, the caravans in tow, I got to see states and cities I thought I'd never see; I would've had no hope of seeing if it weren't for ditching my cynical brother and everything I knew. Sometimes days or weeks could go by and I wouldn't spare a thought to my old life, my old home. When I did think of home, it wasn't fondly, apart from the small light in my life called Kate Bishop. I owed her. An apology. An explanation. A debt.

Upon arriving at a new location, I was always sent away, with a can of spray paint, to an inconspicuous wall, in the centre of the town, where I was to paint a glyph on the wall. It was ritualistic, and it wasn't until a month into my service that I questioned what the circles and the arrows mean.

"What they're for?" Jacques - my circus encyclopedia - responded. "Vagabond code, my lad!" He said expressively, guiding me towards the camp that was just being assembled again: the big-top pegs were being hammered into the ground to support the metal skeleton.

"What does that mean?" I asked naively, a waver of uncertainty in my voice.

"Surely someone has explained it to you, non?" He raised a menacing eyebrow.

I shook my head.

His arm coddling me close, keeping the conversation quiet, he explained. "When a carnival comes to town, we have to make it clear to other competing carnivals that this is our patch and they need to move on. This is our base of operations!" He hissed. "They'd be stealing our business. Stealing from our customers, ironically!" Jacques chortled.

I slithered out of his grasp. "What do you mean stealing?" My words rattled off into a nervous laugh.

"Oh, Hawkeye!" Jacques chuckled. "Surely you figured out where your pay came from? Why it was in objects, not money?" Jacques shook his head.

"You..?" I was taken aback. "You steal from the carnival goers?" It didn't bode well with me. Desperate as some may have been, I didn't condone thieving from innocent people - even if I had fallen into that trap once myself. "You think that's okay?"

For once, Jacques didn't parade around with his exuberant persona. "Look here," he gritted, eyes narrowing. "The Carsons don't pay us a pretty penny, they never have, so we have to take initiative, mon garçon! That's our livelihood... Do you think we have any other choice?" His mood turned and frown lines deepened around his face. "If you want to survive only on the money that Carson gives, I'll happily take your cut of wealth back?"

"No, no!" I held my hands up in a surrender. "I do want it! I just didn't realise-"

Grabbing me by the ribbon at the neck of the costume. "Then don't complain, you fool! I won't tolerate ignorance for what I do for you! I gave you a job, a home, a friend! Some of us here can't get an ordinary job, don't have any family left or any home to go to! Show some respect and gratitude!" And then he shoved me away, storming off with his fingers flexing angrily on the hilt of his sheathed sword.