I used to be a Court Jester, a Joker some called me. I used to entertain the king and his family. Some called me Bonn, others Pavel, some even Dirt. I cannot remember which was my true name, Pavel seems most proper. Now I just go by Joker, at least when people remember to speak to me. Most do not even realize that I am alive. All they see is a wooden stand with open boxes housing figurines and a poster board head on top. And my patches, I am so proud of them. They are one of the only items I have left to me; I made them myself, back in the days of old, in the Kingdom of Yuron. How I wish I could go back to those days, when people looked at me as more than just an inanimate stand, a pigeon stool, a play thing for the kiddies, when people remembered to speak to me, well sometimes. Instead of just blabbing about my current miseries, maybe I will relate to you how I came to be this way. How will I tell you a tale such as this when I cannot even remember my own name? There are some things worth remembering, some things I will never forget.

It was during the festival of the Days of Lights. The flowers were in bloom, the Tulips, the Lilies, the trees were sprouting their new green growth for the year, the minstrels blew and struck music into the, the streets, parks and courts were filled with people full of merriment. Laughter and joy were in the air, as well as sparkling wine, of which a bottle was popped and sprayed around the crowd about every five minutes. It was Spring, a time for forgetting regrets of the past, a time for new growth, a time for lovers. And, I, Pavel, Court Jester of the Royal Palace of his Highness King Shakizar IV of Yuron, was in love with Yuri, the King.s lovely only daughter. The King may have put her on a dais above everyone else in the kingdom, but I placed her on a cloud above everyone else in the world.

She was tall and slender, her face more beautiful than the most gorgeous rose ever picked or not. Her skin was the creamy color of cow.s milk, churning in your mother.s kitchen. Her hair was red satin fit for an emperor.s robe, her eyes a brilliant green that made even emeralds look dull. Her nose was petite, a cute button that said push me gently all about it. Her lips as round and full as the Goddess of Love.s, and when she smiled she tore you in two - you would die for those lips, if only first they would gift you with a small, beautiful and life affirming kiss. A kiss men would die for, and some women too. Her spirit was fire, not of fire, but fire itself. If the Goddess of Fire herself could manifest in the flesh, I am sure that Yuri would have been her incarnation. Yet she could be soft as silk, and as funny as any Court Jester. And she was happy, as happy as a kitten playing with a ball of wool; I loved her to be happy. She was my love, and I hers.

That was until the fateful fifth Day of Lights. We had been keeping our love secret from the king, and rightfully so, for if he had found out his outrage would have been enough to both sever my head and expel it from the kingdom with his foot. After all, I was only a commoner, a Joker; no one fit to marry a princess. We had a special routine where after my daily work entertaining the King I would sneak to Yuri.s bedroom and we would have our fun. Sometimes we stayed in bed and made love, more often out of fear of discovery we would go on walks through the outlands of the Kingdom, where wild animals lived and mythical plants grew. There were many pretty streams and rivers, ponds and swamps, hills and valleys, dense forests and sparse fields. We explored them all, and knew them all.

On that day, that fifth Day of Lights, when we were strolling along a stream that we were particularly fond of, the Roveranian, we came upon a peculiar scene. This stream had always been abandoned of human life, in fact it seemed the most remote of all the others if that could be possible. But on this day we came upon a ring of wagons with people laughing and joking in the middle. We went in closer to see what was happening, and judging that the people looked safe enough we entered the circle. I was still wearing my Jester outfit since we had left after I had come straight back from a performance for commoners assembled for the festivals. Yuri was wearing beautiful white satin pants, and a white blouse that matched her complexion well. She always did dress appropriately for out little adventures. What we came upon was a menagerie of peoples and things: people dressed in all forms and colors, people of all sizes and shapes, and a hundred odd contraptions sprinkled about the yard. When we entered they turned to us, hailed us and asked us our names. I gave my proper name and title, but Yuri answered that she was called Dimura, a seamstress for the King. The strangers called themselves .Carnies. and their leader introduced himself as Rouf. They said they were part of something called a Circus, and were pleased to have such guests among them.

Yuri and I had never heard of such a thing before, and we were fascinated. We listened as they explained the whole workings to us. But it seemed they were even more interested in us. Rouf explained that they were in desperate need of a Joker, as they called ever after, and that their last seamstress had taken a plunge in the River Sious, and that they could use a new one of those too. Yuri and I thankfully declined, told them we were busy and well settled in Yuron. Rouf acknowledged our wishes but suggested we stay for the night. Neither of us had anything to do early the next day, the festival always started late, so we agreed.

That night we spent much time around the fire, talking with the Carnies, telling stories and relating jokes. Yuri came up with some pretty gruesome jokes herself, what a spirit she had. One particular character I remember, Faoutain, called himself a .Wizard. or something like that. He kept fairly quiet, but when he did speak he had some interesting stories to tell. Most of them involved something he called .Magic., something most of the Carnies said they did not believe in. In any case, he never left my mind that night. After a few hours of revelry, Yuri and I went off to a tent the Rouf had provided us with. We made beautiful love, out in the wilderness, and then fell soundly to sleep.

The next thing I remembered, I was tied to tree not too far from the camp. A small fire threw some light on the ground and on Faoutain, who stood in front of me with his large staff. He told me that the Circus needed a Joker, and that I was going to be their Joker. I protested vehemently, told him to untie me. He only smiled, that old grey mustached twisting upwards. I asked him what he had done with Yuri. He said that she was going to be a seamstress, but a different sort than I might have thought. He added that I was going to be a different sort of Joker than I might have thought as well. With that he lifted his staff and I screamed. The next thing I knew I was like I am now, with a few small variations.

Rouf looked around for us, but never found us. He was happy to hear that Faoutain had created a standing Joker for him, and an automatic seamstress of some kind. I never did see this seamstress, nor anyone I knew again. I did not stay with the Circus long, soon I was traded to another company in another land. And Yuri, I never saw her again, nor have heard tale of her. I always wondered if she might be right besides me, unbeknownst to me, a seamstress by her Joker. And then I was alone. I traveled from land to land, never hearing word of her. Now I am here, in what I have heard is called Ithaca. If you see a seamstress, possibly an unusual seamstress, please tell her that her Joker says he still loves her.

Every Journey has a beginning; mine began here, at the Bridge. It was a mild Friday afternoon, not many clouds in the sky. Most of the town was in the village preparing for the Sabbath, I had other plans. With my sack, my knife and my walking stick, I mounted the Bridge and started on the road to my future. Only steps along the way on this tremendous journey and I paused in the middle of the Bridge and looked down at Kazamous Creek. How many times had I fished there with Papa, how many times had I swam in its waters with my brother Sal, how many times had I kissed a pretty girl by its bank?

The Creek was a sign of home to me almost as much as the Bridge. Both were only steps from my house, the blue, white-trimmed three story that sat along the Creek.s bank. Often Freddy Sands from next door and I would run down to the water.s edge and hide under the bridge, playing .Troll Under the Bridge.. Many times we would splash in the waters of the Kazamous and yell .Dirty Water Boy. at each other. I remembered one time when I picked up a pile of dirt to throw at Freddy, and after impact discovered that it had held a rock in its depths. Freddy cried, then I came over to him to see how his head was and saw the bruise. Then we both cried. We had a lot of fun together, Freddy and I.

Then there was the time that I almost chased Sarah across the other side of the Bridge. We were 9 years old, and suddenly both became frightfully scared when we realized where we almost ended up, the other side. We just stared at the path cutting through the short field leading to the woods on that other side and shuddered. Sarah ran past me and I followed as she called me a naughty little boy. I hated that, but I liked Sarah. In our later years we developed a closer friendship, and then a romance. We spent nights under the Bridge, kissing and caressing to our hearts. content, feeling the magic like the water slipping through our toes. On warmer nights we would skinny dip, and I would chase Sarah again like old times. During Sukkot one year, Papa caught Sarah and I laying under the Maple trees by the bank. Both of us had trouble sitting down for a while after that. We made it up to each other later, under the same Maple. That romance faded and ended, like so many more to come, so many friendships, so many relationships, and so many ties. All connections that I formed seemed to dissolve, even the older ones.

I soon realized that even my connection to my village was dissolving. I no longer felt at home there, the streets were not as friendly as they used to be, the people not as warm or kind, the trees not as lovely. So, like my other relationships that I had ended, I decided it was time to end that one. I packed up a few clothes, a blanket, some cooking gear and other accessories, belted my knife and grabbed my staff, and headed out for a new life. And that is how I found myself in front of the Bridge on that solemn Friday, while the rest of the town.s people were readying themselves for God.s commanded day of rest. I knew there would be no rest for me that night.

In all the time that the town began to fade from my mind, that the people grew distant and I felt farther and farther away, the Bridge never diminished in importance to me. During the last days, I seemed drawn to it more and more, as if it were the last support I had left in that town. I spent hours every night leaned up against its side, taking in the moonlight, listening to the beauty of the Creek, relishing the stars. I knew that if I ever left, wherever I went I would still see the stars the same as they were in the sky at night in my village. At least that is something I would always have with me. Some nights I paced the planks of the Bridge itself, pausing to look into the great beyond that I had once feared to venture into so long ago. I dreamed of what was out there, of what I might find, of what might find me. My mind was full of wonder.

So, there I stood, in the middle of the Bridge that I had grown so dear to me, my last point of attachment to my town, my first obstacle to hurdle, looking down at the beauty of the moving waters of the Kazamous Creek. I turned my head right, and looked at my town, my house, my home. I turned my head left and looked into the distance, at my future, if I took it. I felt like Robert Frost coming to his two paths in a wood. And yes, I took the less traveled one, the path to my future. I never looked back, just kept on walking. I never looked back until I was so far away that looking back was just looking in a general direction, not really looking anywhere in particular. But when I did I could still feel it there, my town, the Creek, the Bridge that had raised me. I struggled for a moment, and then sat down to my campfire and relaxed. I was free; I no longer belonged to that village. Papa, Sal, Sarah, Freddy, all ties were broken, and I was free to make new ones wherever I went. I leaned back and looked up at the stars. Ah, just another night under the Bridge.

The River was long, and deep, concealing its forbidden depths across most of its width, revealing the jagged bottom only inches past its edge. Some said it was formed by large moving sheets of ice in days long past, some said Old people had dug it out long ago to suit their needs at the time, others believed that the River had formed itself. Some folk were closer to the truth than others, but only the River knew the truth. It had been there a long time, longer than any of the peoples that now lived by its banks, that drank of its waters, that were nourished by the growth that it fed. Many peoples lived along that river as it twisted back and forth from North to South, many varied peoples, peoples who spoke different languages, who wore different clothes, who celebrated different holidays and worshipped different Gods. But one thing all these people had in common, their love for the River, for the life that it provided them with. They knew that love went both ways, the River loved its people too. And its people knew that they had to keep the River happy, for if the River became angry with them, they might lose that love, and the life that they enjoyed with it.

In one small town, Nacouri, a town along the inside of a West bending of the River, dwelled a people called the Nacourim. They lived a happy and fulfilling life like many of the other inhabitants that made their home on the banks of the River. They spent their days tending crops, grinding maize into flour, baking, fishing, raising children and following the usual routine of a riverside community. Their lives were simple, they had few things in excess, though they did enjoy their holidays profoundly. On one holiday called Chichenka (or River Dance) the villagers would build a large wooden bridge across the River. They would proceed to fill the entire bridge, the Eldest first, with their number and dance away into the night, singing and making merry. At the end of the night, just before the sun rose, some of the younger villagers would line the bridge and light it on fire. They would then all dash back to the other side and watch it burn to ash, a sacrifice for the River. Many of their other holidays were similarly exciting and fun, and all tied into the River. Some thanking it for what it provided, some making sacrifice for its love, some telling old stories and myths about the people along the River and the River.s beginnings. All holidays were loved by the people, and the River loved them too.

One day, Patchua was tilling his cornfield along the River, a little South of the center of the village. He went over to get a fresh drink from the bank, reached his head done and paused just before his lips were about to touch the water. Instead of the clean, pure water that normally flowed by, a large black band curved its way down the river. Patchua could see it going up into the North from its source, and streaming down to the South to its long away end, if it ever did end. At the edges of the band black broke away and all the colors of the rainbow could be seen. Even so, Patchua did not like it, he felt that something was wrong. It was almost as if the River itself were calling to him, letting him know of its pain. He bent down his hand and dipped his finger in. What he pulled out was slippery, almost gooey. It smelt and taste as nothing he had ever known, it was not pleasant at all. Right away he thought, Sammil, it must be Sammil and that funny business he is doing up the River. I knew that would only mean trouble.

Immediately Patchua dropped his hoe and strode on up the bank at a hurried pace, to Sammil.s farm. All along the way he could see the grimy black snake making its trail back down into the South. It sickened him to even think of the beautiful River being marred by that putrid filth. It sickened him even more to think of all the people who lived to the South beyond the Nacourim: the Chinchin, the Wooliz, the Sidochai, all the others he did not even know of. And all the animals and plants that lived perpetually along the River.s bank. He was going to make Sammil do something about this, digging in the ground for a better fuel! What was wrong with wood, as if the village needed a better fuel! If this was the fuel Sammil was talking about, then his idea really was crazy. If not, then he had gotten more than he had bargained for; Patchua would let him know of that.

More and more people joined Patchua in his march, obviously they had seen the filth as well. Raeoli, Old Greege, Liliolith, the Maiden Artua, Saduki, most of the people who lived directly along the banks. Passing the center of the village, many more joined them: Dobs the mayor, Deedle his clerk, Pawn the blacksmith, Taour the hopswoman, and more. They discussed the problem, all agreed that it must have been due to Sammil.s meddling with the Earth, digging deeper than the distance needed to sow corn, deeper than that need to build a bridge. They also agreed that they would put Sammil in his place when they got him in their hands.

But the River had other ideas. As they entered Sammil.s farm a horrible site enfolded before their eyes. To the right Sammil.s pumping machine could be seen, right above one of the large holes he had dug (he had dug many holes, and they dotted his place like black squares on a Chess board), he had apparently found what he was looking for. Black goo oozed from the ground there, wallowed in a pool twenty feet across, and formed a channel two feet wide that was steadily feeding itself into the River. The River itself seemed to have expanded its reach and formed a tight circle around Sammil.s house by its bank. The water became higher and higher, falling against the house as if it were the River.s walls. Sammil and his wife were atop their roof, their two children cradled in their arms. The River became larger and larger, expanding to the edge of the field where the stunned villagers stood. It formed a thick band around Sammil.s house at least fifty feet across each branch. It soon encompassed Sammil.s fuel hole two, the black goo was lost beneath the clean waters. Patchua grit his teeth, they was helpless. The villagers could just hear Sammil and his wife screaming from atop their roof amid the rushing waters, the level was getting higher. It was as if the River wanted the villagers to hear. They cringed, they cried out for Sammil and Gertrude and their little Youson and Slotzy. But to no avail, the torrent rose higher and covered the family, dragging them down to its watery depths.

At that instance, the flood, which covered Sammil.s entire farm and which was higher than a barn, flushed away light a blown out birthday candle. It all just melted into air, into the River. What was left was nothing but grass and stones. Sammil.s house was completely gone, his pumping machine was gone, and there was no sign that anyone had ever lived or farmed there before, no sign of the people who had lived there.

Sammil, Gertrude, Youson and little Slotzy were all lost, no one ever saw them again. No one ever saw the black goo again after the day either, nor did anyone ever try to find it either, at least not for a very long time. Thereafter a new holiday was celebrated in Nacouri: Sammochenkala (The River.s Anger, or Sammil.s Pride). All the villagers would gather on the banks of the River, dig in the dirt with their hands and pour water colored black with clay into the river. After a stream of black clay made its way down the River, the villagers would dip their buckets, bring them back to their fields and pour them over themselves. They would go to bad that way, in soaked clothes. Those who fell sick and died were judged as not meant to go on, as blights on the River. The villagers went on with their lives for the most part, maybe a little less joyful for a while, but not for long. After many years they forgot Sammil and his family, stopped mourning them. But they never forgot Sammochenkala or its practice, and they never forgot what the River had done that day.