The Tears of a Clown
By Lori Bush
Disclaimers: I
still don't own them – not for lack of desire. They belong to RenPics and all,
who don't deserve them. Still, I pray no one sues me for saying that, or any of
the rest of this.
Rating: WARNING!
This story is rated R adult themes and generally depressing subject matter.
Character death.
Notes: In spite of
the fact that "Cruel Justice" was the darkest thing I ever wrote, it was one of
the best received. This is of a similar tone, although it was actually written
before that one. Sockii was holding it to publish in a 'zine, which she has now
decided not to put out, and it's mine again to do with as I wish.
I am releasing this
to FanFiction.net *first* instead of the usual places because the audience
there seems pretty open to unusual stories, and this ranks up there as one of
those. My pre-readers used words like "disturbing" and "Let me go find a bridge
to throw myself off, now." Not responsible for depressed reactions.
Un-beta'd. I seem
to be doing a lot of that these days. *sigh*
~**~
He sat before the mirror and looked at himself, as he had every day for the last five years. Had it really been every day? He was sure it had. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing did, really. JoJo the Clown had work to do, and life went on whether he cared or not. Fortunately, he didn't.
He scanned the ceramic pots before him – the tools of his trade. He picked up the small sea sponge he always used and the largest pot of the oily paint – white. He dipped the sponge in, and began applying it to his already pasty face, making it even paler. So very pale…
She was so very pale, so white. Of course, the puddle of her life's blood that pooled around her probably explained that. He knelt down, touching her face gently. She was cold – wasn't it too soon for that? He knew that when this day finally came, the world would end. Not just his world – the entire world and everything in it. Yet things seemed to be going on. How dare they? Everything should stop. The world belonged to her, and nothing could continue now.
Yes, she had died before, but not alone. He knew this
time, there would be no ambrosia, no angel, no Eli. She was really gone. And it
was his fault. He stood, and turned to the woman beside him, her face frozen in
shock, her green eyes staring sightless at the fallen warrior. "Xena?" she
whispered. And she fell into him, the dam breaking, her grief pouring out. She
had become so strong, but she had seen one thing she couldn't bear – the body
of her closest and dearest friend, lifeless before her. And he wanted to cry,
too, as he held her, but he couldn't. He'd seen both of them like this before,
but he always believed that he would never have to deal with it again. The one
thing that broke Gabrielle's heart had taken Joxer's spirit. Xena had been
killed trying to save him.
Finished with the white, he covered the pot and pulled out the fine brush he used for the next step. His hands moved without the need for thought, the actions long ago having passed from mere habit into pure reflex. He opened the pot, a bit of his white face reflected in the shiny black surface. He drew the brush through the paint, and began drawing the black lines around his eyes…
The night was pitch black, even the moon apparently in mourning for the Warrior Princess. He looked around the small group standing before the just-lit funeral pyre. Somehow, all the people that had mattered to her in life had managed to be here, except her mother. There just wasn't time for Cyrene to reach them. Besides Gabrielle and Joxer, Hercules and Iolaus were there, and beside them stood Autolycus. Joxer looked at the pained eyes of the half-god, who was saying goodbye to a woman he had loved, but had parted from in peace. He had had his time with her, and while it had been good, they had both known it was not meant to be. It was the eyes of the King of Thieves that tore at Joxer's soul. Autolycus had probably thought that Xena would be there forever, just waiting until he could tell her how he really felt. Now that she was gone, he knew how foolish that belief had been. Joxer could certainly sympathize, having stood in his place not once, but twice with Gabrielle. But he had been given another chance, and he felt sure that this man wouldn't get that.
He looked at the small, seemingly frail woman beside him.
It was obvious she had grown numb, a feeling he shared, but he knew she would
break through it. He was not so sure about himself. She had a great deal of
strength, had suffered so much; she had already survived the unendurable. And she would find a way to survive and
endure this, too. In spite of the fire he shivered, as the cold in his soul
rose to the surface.
Without thinking, he began to sing the song he had heard
from Xena when Perdicas and others had died. It had been so haunting in her
clear tones, and his strong baritone, while making it sound completely
different, rendered it equally moving.
Covering the small jar of black paint, he reached across and uncapped the next, setting it before him. The larger brush retrieved, he made the outline of the high circles on his cheekbones, filling them with brilliant red.
Her cheeks were flushed red, and she was sleeping fitfully as he watched from beside her. The others had all gone their separate ways, and left them alone together. They had pretended to move through life as if they could, but the pretense had been too much. Their sorrow had built inside them until it would explode without some release, and they had finally made love for the first time. He knew, sadly, for the last time, as well. Their passion was almost fury, a desperate need to feel something, anything for a little while.
He almost got up and left then, but after all they had
been through together, he owed her a goodbye. He knew he would always love her,
but he couldn't really feel it anymore. He had shut down, everything inside of
him a huge black hole, and their actions that evening had sealed his fate. For
once, there was a time when he would have said that now his life was complete,
but that was a lifetime ago. What had once would have been in his mind an act
of incredible tenderness, he had used as an escape, a way to see if he still
lived. It convinced him that he didn't.
Still using the red, he painted a great bow of a smile across his expressionless lips. He wiped the brush, replacing the lid in the jar and opening the very last of the pots. With the tiniest of his brushes, he scooped up a small amount of blue paint, and with the lightest touch, drew the single teardrop on his cheek.
The first thing he saw was the bright blue wagon. People around here rarely painted their wagons, since paint was expensive and hard to come by, especially in the quantities needed to color an entire wagon. He might have no real feelings any longer, but he still had his curiosity. They were stopped, an odd looking group of men and women spread out by the roadside, eating a small meal. One couple was a bit to the side, turning in backbends and handsprings that reminded him of Xena as she fought, a thought he boxed up and packed away as quickly as it surfaced. A lanky man stood and approached him, dusting his breeches as he came. He held out his hand, and when Joxer extended his, he didn't reach for the upper arm, as warriors were wont to do, but rather took Joxer's hand in his own, shaking it. "Welcome, friend," the man offered genially, "Would you like to join us for our midday meal?" Joxer's smiled without involving his eyes, and the entire assembly welcomed him.
He hadn't really been going anywhere – just away. Away from his memories, away from his pain. The traveling circus welcomed his as one of their own, and he saw no reason not to join them. Paleus, the first to greet him, was the manager and leader of the group. He was also the head clown, going by the childish name of Poppy. He quickly decided that if Joxer was going to travel with them, he should have an act. He asked Joxer if he could sing, but he quickly demurred. He had burned his lute for kindling after had had left Gabrielle, and after lifting his voice to mourn the death of his best friend, he felt he could never sing songs of joy again. He had no desire to work with the animals, and finally Kileah, the bareback rider declared that with his sad eyes, Joxer would be a perfect sad-sack clown. He studied Paleus, the way he could hide behind his makeup and make the children laugh, even on the days that there wasn't enough money for food, or the day his favorite horse broke her leg and had to be put down. It was the perfect disguise.
The first time he had tried to apply the makeup, Paleus had talked him through it, but it was still a pretty pitiful job. Even Joxer almost had to laugh, but he had forgotten how. Once he mastered the application, he needed to figure out an act. Nothing he said came out right, and he almost gave up, until someone suggested he try pantomime. Expressing himself through motion, rather than words suited him, and he soon became JoJo, the most popular clown in the circus. Few people who knew him for less than the full five years he had been a part of the troupe even realized he had another name. It struck him that the smile he painted on was marred by the deep sadness in his eyes, but Kileah told him that all the best clowns had broken hearts. He silently acknowledged that he should take his place at the top, if that were the case.
His face a mask of unfelt
jocularity, he pushed away from the table. He put the large, foolish shoes on
his feet and pulled on the white gloves, ready to face his public once more.
The children all cheered
when JoJo arrived, his being the favorite act of the entire show, and so saved
for last. He began with some simple pratfalls, tripping over his own feet and
other imaginary obstacles. Then he did the classic actions if a man trapped in
an unseen box, feeling around to find his way out. Poppy threw him some balls,
and he juggled, occasionally dropping and magically retrieving one ball or
another. Lastly, he did some simple magic tricks; pulling flowers out of the
air and then making them disappear, to reappear as brightly colored cloth. His
act over, he mimed an exaggerated bow, and then sat down and waited for the
children to come.
If there was anything he
actually still cared about, anything that could melt a bit of the ice around
his soul, it was the children. They came, laughing and shy, to touch the man
that brought them such joy. Many tried to talk to him, but JoJo was a silent
clown, and never once spoke. But he would take them on his knee, pull flowers
from their ears, give a little of himself to each one, and then give them back
to their parents, another part of him torn away in the process. They were the
only people on earth he could still give to. Some knew, and they asked JoJo why
he looked so sad, but he was unable to answer them in mime, so they got no answer
at all.
Today there was one child
in the crowd who particularly held his interest. A tiny girl about four or five
years old, her hair shone like gold, and when it caught the sunlight it gave
off hints of red. Her eyes were huge dark pools, and she was awed by the
nearness of the man she had watched perform with great interest. She managed to
push through the throng of children that surrounded JoJo and Poppy, and stared
at him with love and fascination. He reached out for her, drawing her onto his
knee and stroking her hair with one gloved hand. He pulled a flower from her
ear and she giggled, and the sound was as beautiful as any angelic choir. She looked over the clown's shoulder at
someone, and with awe announced, "Mommy, its JoJo." The voice that answered
caused his heart to drop, and he was eternally grateful for his painted-on
smile.
"I see, Xena, love. Did
the clown give you that flower? Very pretty." Gabrielle stepped from behind
him, wearing a long dress and looking almost no older than she had when he had
left those years before. Her green eyes shone in love as she studied her
child's undisguised glee.
Then a man walked up, and
the girl said, "Look, Daddy. The nice man gave me a flower." Joxer looked into
the face of his former friend Iolaus, who was absorbed by the small angel as
well. He put his arm around Gabrielle, and smiled gently at the girl.
"Come on now, Xena. The
other children want a turn as well." The little girl turned her shining eyes
back to the clown, noticing a pooling in his eyes.
She put her lips next to
his ear, and whispered so that only he could hear. "I'm sorry if I made you
cry, Mr. JoJo. I'd like to stay, but Mommy and Daddy say I have to go. Will you
come back again sometime?" He wrapped his long arms around her and pulled her
to his chest, nodding and fighting back the tears. She lifted her little head
and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. When she pulled away, he carefully wiped
the white grease paint off her lips with his finger. She reached up her hands,
and Iolaus took her in his arms.
Gabrielle watched her
husband and child as they walked away. She was so fortunate to have this man to
love and care for her, even if she was unable to return the emotion fully.
After all, how many men were willing to love and raise a child they hadn't
fathered? Yet he treated Xena as if she were his own. How many men would
willingly endure the darkness she carried within her, never free of the burdens
she had taken on, the loss of the two people she had loved most, in her life. She
looked over at the clown that had brought her child such joy, and wondered how
they managed to make that painted teardrop sparkle as if it were real.