I felt sick.

My head was swimming.

Not because of the bodies of the Budrahrium’s defenders lying along the walls of the dimly lit corridors—I passed by them, averting my eyes—but because the numbness from being hit by a stone was wearing off. Now my head wound was burning hot. The pain was spreading all over my head, pulsing to the beating of my heart. Every sound echoed through my ears as sickening noise.

Examining my wound, Kasamarchi took several small pouches from his bag. From each, he poured some powder into a clay mug of water. Stirring them into a mixture with a strong pharmaceutical smell, he used it to wash my wound. It made my skin slightly itchy.

He then gave me something to chew—some weird sort of white dough mixed with gray pollen that instantly numbed my tongue and the roof of my mouth. When I removed this chewing gum from my mouth, he plastered it over my wound and told me to hold it there.

A few minutes later, he allowed me to take my fingers off. By that time, the wound was numb, its edges closed and dried.

Kasamarchi tucked a tiny ball, as large as my nail and soft as dough, into my hand. “Hold it in your mouth, but don’t chew. First, drink this.” He handed me a mug with another weird mixture, absolutely tasteless. Taking a gulp, I tossed the tiny ball in my mouth and rolled it on my tongue. This medicine tasted slightly tart, like a soft taffy with a hint of dark chocolate.

As the ball melted on my tongue, the headache subsided. My heart was now sending out warm waves of calmness and serenity.

The half-dark Budrahrium suddenly seemed cozy and homelike.

All of a sudden, I saw how beautiful Kasamarchi was: perfect face, bottomless eyes with torchlight dancing in them like gleams of divine fire.

An angel.

He’s an angel sent down here to rescue me. How could I not see that before?

Kasamarchi peered at me. “We must go to the Bloody Basin, Ana,” he sang in a wonderfully melodious voice, so beautiful that I could listen to it forever.

What is he doing in a place like this? With a voice like that, he needs a singing career.

He quickly collected his medical gear—I marveled at his every move—and we started down the spiraling stairs.

What incredible beauty this place had!

I looked around, admiring the dance of shadows on the stones. It looked like the mating rite of some fairy-tale animals.

The rough material of the stairs was a caressing touch through the thin soles of my sandals.

My sandals.

Kasamarchi made them for me! Fantastic!

I kept skipping from one thought to another, dropping the previous thread once a new one caught my attention. The feeling of the world’s perfection poured into my body from all around, through all my senses at once, like wind through wide-open windows.

The half-dark cellar was reminiscent of Christmas in my childhood. With each step, I felt like a shiny, luminous Christmas tree was behind the next corner, waiting to pop into view.

But the stairs spiraling down and to the right would not end.

The crackling of the torches felt like some elaborate, inviting rhythm.

We are dancing! Down and right, down and right! How wonderful!

Kasamarchi walked ahead, sometimes casting a brief glance over his shoulder at me. He seemed to be concerned about my health. No reason to worry, man. I haven’t felt this great in a long time.

The stairs came to an end.

No Christmas tree in the cellar. What a pity. But I didn’t really care, not with my attention already grabbed by an exciting game of remember-this-smell.

Where, where could I have smelled it before? It was sweet, somewhat stale, and lasting. My head itched from inside as I struggled to recollect the place, with the smell tickling my nostrils and stirring memories.

“Put it into the washing machine now. You won’t get rid of this smell later.”

I knew I was one step away from remembering it. I liked this game.

“Poor thing. He’s suffered so much. But now it’s over.”

“Ninety years old. He lived a long life.”

“Hey, start the cycle. It will soon get unbearable in this heat.”

Yes!

Here it is!

I was six, standing at the local hospital’s pathology department entrance. Granny left me here to wait as she went inside to sort something out. Something related to great-grandpa’s death. He died in this very hospital after a week in intensive care.

A fifteen minutes’ wait outside, in the hot July afternoon, felt like an eternity. The smell was barely perceptible here, at the door. But I got bored waiting and tried to open the door, applying all my weight to the massive, time-darkened, copper-topped wooden handle.

The heavy door yielded slowly, as though it would rather not obey someone as small as me.

Ducking my head in, I saw a long corridor with a dirty orange floor and white tiled walls. A long line of bearded old men’s portraits stretched into the distance, sometimes interrupted by tall, double doors with dark-red nameplates.

Running my gaze down the corridor, I saw Granny’s stocky figure walking towards the exit. Spotting me, she shook her head with reproach. Noting that the smell was much stronger in here than outside—probably because of all those creepy old men in the portraits—I ducked back outside, into the scorching midday.

The Budrahrium’s cellar smelled much the same, although it had no gray-bearded male portraits on the walls. The smell of dead flesh mixed with the strong odor of animals, like in a zoo or circus. I even squinted at the stone floor to check if there was any sawdust.

Glancing along the dark walls stained with torchlight, I imagined those portraits of medical doctors placed all over them and laughed.

Even greater fun was the idea of a ringmaster running beneath the low ceiling. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, attention! A death-defying stunt! An ape and a horse casting away their halves...”

The audience laughs.

“…for our Bloody Basin to merge them into a single whole! Only today! You don’t want to miss it!”

The light fades as the audience whispers in excitement, those in the back rows standing up…

I’m seated in the front, holding my breath, my heart pounding with the anticipation of a true miracle, a strange tart-and-bitter taffy melting away in my mouth and…and my mind knocking into my temples, yelling something about a drug trip.

Go away, you bore. I want my fun.

I’m seven. It’s my first time at the circus. This place is fascinating, though I had no idea it smells like a morgue. And where are my parents? Who is that, in the next seat? My older brother? But I don’t have any siblings.

Where has he gone, anyway? He was just here. I grope in the dark for Kasamarchi, but my hands find only cold stones. Why doesn’t this circus have any seats, only a rough, cold stone floor?

Oh, my God. Why does that even matter? Why all these questions? Turn the lights on! Now!

As though obeying my command, the darkness shatters, raining down like broken glass. I see a circle filled with boiling lava and feel warmth as though a radiator has turned on.

With my eyes quickly adjusting to the crimson semi-dark, I see Kasamarchi sitting across the fiery pit, his face turned to me. I hear a horse neigh, shifting its hooves in the darkness on my right. From the left, a gorilla’s panting breath and heavy footsteps come.

It feels a bit scary. I have never been this close to large animals. I can’t see them, but still…

No. I shouldn’t be afraid. I’m in the circus! It’s part of the performance, so stop being a bore and enjoy the show!

Kasamarchi rocks from side to side, like he did in the animator’s hut, fingering something. Instead of the buzzing sound, he utters a gentle neigh, shaking his head like a horse, then “uh, uh, uh” while scratching the top of his head with his index finger.

The crimson lava boils, glowing and pressing the dark away.

Now I see the giant shadows flanking the boy sitting next to the Bloody Basin.

A boy?

My little brother?

Yes. That’s probably him.

The lava boils up. The light from the Basin becomes almost white; in it, I see what Kasamarchi holds in both hands—two small figurines he’s just made out of dark clay: a horse with short, sturdy legs, and a big-headed monkey.

I hold my breath.

The animals stir nervously in the dark.

Kasamarchi takes both figures with his left hand, clutching them between his fingers so that I can only see the horse’s head and the monkey’s legs.

With his right hand, he snaps these off.

I remember a trick they often show to children. An adult pretends to take their thumb off and then put it back, exciting the crowd of small spectators.

But Kasamarchi doesn’t put the removed parts back. He drops them into the boiling lava.

At that very moment, I hear something heavy crash to the floor in the dark, followed by a splashing, hissing sound like that of pressurized water bursting from a garden hose and hitting the wall.

The audience gives a loud gasp.

I gasp too.

With his free hand, Kasamarchi takes one mutilated figurine, turns it into the right position, and presses tightly to another.

Shadows are darting behind his back. Again, I hear a trample of hooves, and the bloodied hulk of a Budrah glides out of the dark.

Looming over Kasamarchi’s tiny figure, the monster bows down to him.

The audience erupts into a fit of crazy applause.

Everyone is delighted.

The spotlight wanders back to the ringmaster, a man with a handlebar mustache. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen. That’s our incredible Kasamarchi, the one and only!”

As the applause thunders on, the invisible spectators jump up, raving, stomping, and whistling. Some of them scream, “Encore!”

The ringmaster lifts a hand, calling for silence, and the ovation subsides slightly, just enough to hear his studied baritone. “Ladies and gentlemen. Kasamarchi appreciates your warm reception. As a sign of gratitude, he will do his stunt for you three more times!”

And the audience goes wild. The noise level rises to the point that it is about to burst my eardrums…

I suddenly feel immensely bored and dead tired. My eyelids become so heavy I can no longer lift them, let alone stand up. I collapse to my side and roll up in a ball, hoping no one steps on me.

Before my head touches the stone floor, I am fast asleep.

…but the next moment, a gentle shake comes to my shoulder. “Get up, Ana. Time to leave.”

I spring to my feet. The first thing I remember is not the circus show but my wound. Feeling my head, I find only a thin, barely discernible scar under my hair. Only a weak echo remains of yesterday’s bad headache.

Looking up at Kasamarchi squatting in front of me, I ask, “Hey, how did you do that?”