The Court of Clowns

The Court of Clowns

If Sir Duncelot had foreknown what awaited him, upon rousing from his sleep, he might have lain abed forever. Instead, a fateful knock thwacked at his door, jolting him awake from what had been bliss. Dressing in a silken gown, he descended to see who intruded. Opening the door, though keeping it latched, Sir Duncelot peeped at two knights armoured in thick breastplates, impermeable bascinets, and bulging gorgets. 

“Sir Duncelot,” said the brawnier of the two, “by orders of The High Court of Justice, you are to be taken to the moon, where you shall be trialled.” 

“The moon!” exclaimed Sir Duncelot, as he rubbed his eyes in disbelief. He tried formulating a response, but faltered in doing so, and could but stare at the knights. One of them battered at the door protecting Sir Duncelot. Perspiring from angst, he withdrew back within the unlit halls. 

“Sir Duncelot,” advised the taller of the two, “it would do well for you to admit us. Struggling will further impeach you.” 

Unheeding, Sir Duncelot stepped farther and farther back, provoking the knights to pummel the door, exerting all their mettle, till the latch fragmented. Sir Duncelot ran toward another exit in his kitchen. The knights, however, despite their leaden armour, caught up with their absconder. Seized by the collar on his gown, ripping the material in twain, the brawnier knight overthrew him. 

“Resisting will serve no purpose. We shall remain downstairs, till you have attired in more formal and appropriate garments.” 

With his pupils dilated into being abyssal holes, Sir Duncelot scanned his apprehenders with assiduity. Were they in earnest? - they must be, for why else would such a disturbance have arisen. What had he committed? - if related to his libido, then he was sure to be condemned. These thoughts flickered on and off, as Sir Duncelot climbed his circuitous stairwell. Perduring even as he clothed himself in an Etonian suit, black in lacquer, with its shape resembling that of a penguin. 

Rejoining the knights, who were rummaging through the contents of his home, Sir Duncelot announced that he was ready. With a knight on either side, they conveyed him without, where there was a carriage bridling a White Arabian. No coachman was in sight. Rather, the horse, with its luscious locks of ivory, seemed to be humanised as one. Surrounding the carriage, was the foregathering of a multitude. Their faces agog with fascination, their mouths agape, and their tongues spitting vitriol at Sir Duncelot for being so heinous. In fact, the multitude were also clueless as to what his crime was. All the same, the public will cheer at anything which might enliven the ennui of existing. Noting how stigmatised he was, Sir Duncelot pondered yet deeper upon the peculiarity of his situation: to whom did Sir Duncelot owe this displeasure? - the Parisian strumpet he had unstrung - or, percase, the Arabian Quean he had uncrowned? At any rate, his list of suspects was bottomless. 

In silence did they ride, with Sir Duncelot being still circumscribed by the knights. So deft was the White Arabian, that not once were they shuddered or juddered. The voyage was a queer mélange of peace, turmoil, and retrospection. When they had arrived at the rocket, intended for soaring spaceward, the knights preceded Sir Duncelot. Having instructed him to board the ship, which emulated Tweedledee (or Tweedledum - twins are ever so hard to distinguish), the knights quitted him. Within the echoes of the ship, Sir Duncelot saw the Grecian god, Pan, and a naval captain, with wooden stubs for legs. Pan’s torso was decked in a tuxedo, whilst his lower half was in the woolly nude. He had a permanent smile, which clashed with his vocal variances. 

“I am glad,” spoke Pan, “to, at last, have the chance to discuss your case with you. When on the moon, we will have no second to spare.” 

Sir Duncelot mumbled what might have been translated as content at the possibility of enlightenment. 

“Have you been informed of whom we are contending with?” 

A shrug was how Sir Duncelot answered. 

“Silenus! that deity whom drunkards alike worship. We must not succumb to his wiles, for his cunning is unrivalled.” 

Sir Duncelot itched at the scabrous confusion between his forehead. Signalling to the naval captain that they must hurry to the High Court, Pan signed for Sir Duncelot to sit on an ovoid chair. As imaginable, his derrière was crippled from his inordinate posture. As they glissaded through the atmosphere, Pan prattled on strategies that must be employed when before the court. For instance, honesty being an amoral policy. Sir Duncelot learnt that Pan had been appointed as his defence attorney. In spite of the verbiage Pan detailed with, Sir Duncelot was yet to be apprised of what had instigated this criminal oddity. When pressing Pan for the wherefore, he was met with raucous ridicule, and his words were swept aside. As a means of negating what Sir Duncelot sought, Pan would often offer him liquor, water, rehydratable food, or anything at all, so long as it meant Pan could bilk having to divulge the matter. Angered by this elusive behaviour, Sir Duncelot ceased listening to his attorney. He occupied himself by gazing at a rectangular window, where strobed an infinity of sequinned stars. Upon arrival, this was supplanted for the iridescent surface of the moon, silvering a gossamer from its sheeny rocks. In amazement, Sir Duncelot gawked at the innumerable edifices built here. Some were similar to those from the Shire in the Hobbit, whereas others reared up into the exosphere like Smaug. The High Court itself had the tint of platinum, being of average height when compared to what girdled it. Having dove down into a crater, the ship was parked amongst many of its kind, implying that the High court was bustling. 

Stressing the urgency of haste, Pan thanked the naval captain, who grunted his appreciation, and led Sir Duncelot through some metallic halls. Muralled on the walls were either paintings or photographs of famous judges, both antediluvian and newfangled. Their heads were bewigged (for the modesty of their bald scalps), and enrobed in ghostly sables, lapelled with gold. There was a din reverberating throughout, as their shoes hit the surface of the taintless floor. They halted at a birchen door, where a fearsome Cerberus was patrolling. All three of its heads sniffed them for contraband, or something of an illicit nature. Possessing nothing of the sort, they were ushered inside. The ceiling in the courtroom towered upward; so much so that it would have dwarfed even Gargantua or Pantagruel. Rows upon rows of quartz seats lined the outskirts. They were populated by nuns, nymphs, Iggy Pop (shirtless, as always), minotaurs, clergymen merpeople, manticore, and sundries more. 

In the well of the court, there was the apartheid where prosecution and defence would embattle. Standing was the satyr - Silenus - with whom Pan would be quarreling with. Documents and documents, wherein his information for slander would be plucked from, were strewn atop his counsel table. For no plausible reason, Silenus was the sole attendee to be naked, with his swollen stomach being loathly to look at. On the bench was none other than Themis, whose eyes were wrapt with a scarlet blindfold. She had scales to her left, and had warped her gavel into a miniature sword. Themis’s lips were stiffened from austerity. Beside her was a Cyclopean reporter, manning a Hammond typewriter, eager to commence clacking at its keys. Contradicting the need of this reporter, was the presence of a cherub with a camera for televising the case for both earthlings and moonlings akin.

“Where is the jury?” whispered Sir Duncelot to Pan. 

“There is none - it is juryless. All rests on the decision of the judge.” Whereafter Sir Duncelot trembled at Themis, in her enormous throne. Gratified by this, Silenus bowed with a malefic grin. With Pan and Sir Duncelot now seated, the trial began. 

“Sir Duncelot, are you aware of the illimitable charges against you?” inquired Themis. 

He was on the verge of bellowing his want for clarification, but Pan prodded him with indiscretion. Dumbed, Sir Duncelot nodded. 

“Do you plead guilty or guiltless?” 

Before Sir Duncelot himself could reply, Pan swooped in to feast upon the carrion:

“Guitless, Your Honour.” 

“Very well,” said Themis. “I demand the prosecution bring forth what evidence they have.” 

Stifling a snigger, Silenus strutted to the midst of the court, with his documents abreast. “We have all heard of this knave,” pointing to Sir Duncelot, “for whom we have under scrutiny.” Silenus advanced toward the defendant. “Your Honour, may I call the defendant up for cross-examination?” 

“Granted.” 

Sir Duncelot grated at his chin, divining it to be rather early for his hour of questioning. The illegality was yet to be stated. Pan assured him that this was the judicial wont on the moon. 

Before Sir Duncelot departed, Pan exposed a brush to dandify him with. When purer than a puritan, Pan bid Sir Duncelot the best of providence. Upon the stand, with his legs shivering, Sir Duncelot allayed his anxiety through languid breaths, and licentious woolgathering. The cherub magnified its lens, honing in on the moisture dripping from Sir Duncelot’s pores. After having pledged the truth - and naught but the truth - with his hand on the book of morons, Silenus, smirking, interrogated: 

“Have you a wife?”

“Many years ago.” 

“Was your marriage blithe, or a strife?” 

“As with all marriages, there were periods of both quiet and disquiet.” 

“Intriguing. Did you ever philander, whilst wedded to your wife?” 

“Pardon!”

“Objection, Your Honour!” interceded Pan. “The Prosecution is not letting bygones be bygones!” 

“Overruled!” 

Pan levigated the enamel in his teeth. The attendees did likewise, though from their euphoria of the ambient tensity. 

“Thank you, Your Honour,” toadied Silenus, curtsying with his tumid belly adroop. Turning to Sir Duncelot, Silenus resumed:

“Must I reiterate?” 

“No, you needn’t. Yes, if you must know, I did deceive her.” 

“How numerous were these deceits?” 

“Unreckonable,” murmured Sir Duncelot, as Pan, in the backdrop, wailed in agony at such self-incrimination. In a trice, the attendees gasped, as the Cyclopean reporter amplified the force used on his typewriter. 

Pan began rifling through papers, searching for a countervail, or annulment of sorts. 

“I must commend you for confessing,” antagonised Silenus. “Your Honour, if I may, I would like to invoke the ecclesiastical law, citing adultery as punishable by death.”

Having found what would nullify Silenus’s argument, Pan interposed:

“Objection, Your Honour. This was abolished in the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857. The prosecution is adducing what is long antiquated.”

“Sustained. The prosecution must not draw from what is of yore.” 

With both of their pupils contracted, Pan and Silenus glared at each other, aflame with vindictive thoughts. The Cyclopean reporter steadied the zeal wherein they had hitherto deployed. A hush traversed the room; all were rabid for what was next. 

“Hearsay rumours of your debauches,” said Silenus. “Birds tell of you having partaken in orgies greater than Cesare Borgia’s, in the chambers of the Vatican.” Sir Duncelot smiled at what he viewed as a compliment. “Do you deny this?” 

“Objection, Your Honour! An allusive irrelevance! Lest we omit the claims for being hearsay!” screamed Pan, with an unfortunate breaking of his voice. The attendees tittered at Pan’s mishap. 

“Order!” commanded Themis, quacking their souls with the hammering of her sword. “Objection sustained - the evidence is impertinent and rumorous.” 

As if a child bestowed gifts, Pan twinkled in glee. Moaning, Silenus swung his feet in frenzy, kicking at spectres in the air. Hankering for a requital, Silenus mulled over what could most besmirch Sir Duncelot. Electrified by his conclusion, he emplaced both hands beside those of Sir Duncelot’s, and issued: 

“Have you ever engaged in sodomy?” 

The attendees chortled with much fervour; they were anon quenched by another “Order!” from Themis. With his jaw stupefied, Sir Duncelot lurched and crimsoned from his ire. Silenus gloated over his provocation. Sir Duncelot had to eschew the pestilent cherub, since his lens was now an inch away from his nose. The Cyclopean reporter, again, increased the speed of which the transcript of the hearing was produced. 

For a second, Sir Duncelot glanced at the dank face of Pan, panged by how he could not help his client. Reasoning whether to be honest or dishonest was strenuous for Sir Duncelot. The reality being that he had, indeed, been sodomised by harlots manful and feline in sex. 

“I have, yes.” Exasperation was effusing from Sir Duncelot. 

“Dare I ask for an enumeration?” 

Empurpled, Sir Duncelot displayed this to be superfluous. 

Interim, Pan had been leafing through his papers anew, desperate to discredit the prosecution. 

“With this being so, Your Honour, I see the flagrancy of Sir Duncelot having defied the Buggery Act of 1533.” 

The attendees roared in triumph, hoping this would foment Sir Duncelot to be hanged, decollated, or guillotined.

Pan, however, was more tenacious than to surrender Sir Duncelot over to the gallows. “Objection, Your Honour! Again, we listen to the machinations of an antiquarian prosecutor.” All eyes flitted to Pan. “The Buggery Act was repealed, and is invalid as means of indictment. Besides, my client is not as wild as Oscar once was.” 

“Sustained.” Themis now addressed Silenus; “Cease raising such redundancies.” 

“I beg your shrift, Your Honour,” fawned Silenus, blushing from a humiliation at being trounced on repeat. Flamed by his defeats, Silenus believed he knew how to entrap Sir Duncelot. He resorted to exchanging Sir Duncelot for a witness, whom he had procured from the depths of the defendant’s depravity. If this failed, then all had been done in vain. Silenus had confidence, though, that his subsequent wile would prove irremissible. 

As Sir Duncelot reinstated himself beside Pan, he wondered who was to testify against him. The witness was revealed as being Medusa, with her serpentine hair and ossifying beauty. Out of precaution, all refrained from glimpsing at Medusa, save Iggy Pop. As a result, he was rendered a stony fossil. 

Sir Duncelot was astonished, for he had no remembrance of them swiving, nor him having even known Medusa. She was rather too indelible to forget, nevertheless, he had. The sum of his salacities had begot dyscalculia. 

“Medusa,” began Silenus, with his left hand shielding his eyes, “are you acquainted with Sir Duncelot?” 

“In our youth, yes.” 

“Were you two intimate?” 

“Objection, Your Honour!”

“Overruled!” 

“Were you?” continued Silenus, glowing with malevolence. 

“Yes, till he impregnated me, and deserted his daughter and I, for some elopement.” 

The attendees shrieked in disgust, with a nun going so far as to remove her veil, to then lance it at Sir Duncelot; prompting him to shrink with shame. 

“Objection, Your Honour,” said Pan. “This is falsified. How would my client have copulated with Medusa, when the mere sight of her can have one paralysed?” 

At present, Sir Duncelot had retrieved his spell spent with Medusa, and conceded it to have been an actuality, not a falsity. One look at his pale features would betray this concession. 

“He would blindfold me,” unbosomed Medusa, before anyone had stolen the opportunity of replying. Her candour touched the heart of Themis, hence prejudicing her against Sir Duncelot. A surreptitious disgrace now clung to him.

“May the child be attested?” posed Silenus to Themis. Agreeing, the child was allowed to walk around the well of the court. She had the bluest eyes, rosiest cheeks, and saddest smile. 

“Your Honour,” spoke Silenus, “for the neglect of his kin, I request the indictment of Sir Duncelot be meted at child abuse.” 

“I concur,” decided Themis, thereupon fronting Sir Duncelot. “For the crime against your daughter and desertion of duties, I sentence you to betroth Medusa, and have all your finances be allotted to caring for this new family of yours.” The sword resounded as it buffeted the bench. 

In hysteria, Sir Duncelot lisped profuse refutations. “No, anything but this…Your Honour! I am unfit for fathering the girl, and being faithful to a woman. I tried once - O’ how hard did I try!” 

“Indeed, and you will be forced to learn how to amend these faults. Strict shall we be, for, every year, you will be summoned before me, where your fatherly adequacy will be evaluated. If either remiss or faithless,” Themis’s tone enkindled from wrath, “your penalties and punishments will amount.” 

 Sir Duncelot fathomed how fruitless it would be to further dispute his conviction. As he wept, moped, and protested to Pan, who sobbed himself at having been vanquished by Silenus, the cherub entrenched upon the former’s need for privacy. 

Themis queried whether Medusa desired additional recompense. She did not, therefore, Themis ordained Sir Duncelot and Medusa to convene before her, where she beckoned a priest from the clergymen to solemnise the matrimony. Begrudged, one at random accepted the burden of having to read the vows. As the priest did thus, Sir Duncelot grew so tearful that Noah could have sailed his sea of tears. Per contra, Medusa grew so joyous that her joy enrapt all others to be deluded by a feeling of beholding the epitome of romance. Odd, however, was how the while Sir Duncelot’s daughter enfolded around him, forgiving him for his neglect and estrangement. Whether impelled by pity, mercy, or longing, this unmerited affection from his daughter consoled the otherwise inconsolable. 

When glancing at her, Sir Duncelot could not help but count the similarities between him and his daughter. Perhaps, thought he, it is time to let the tide rid me of my turpitude.