Clown Merry and the Guardian of the Final Forest

Once upon a time, in the far land of Felicia, lived a Clown Merry. He was a big and chubby baboon, always scampering around town in his pompous suit, a bundle of balloons bobbing in his wake. He had something in store for everyone he met: a joke for a tired worker, a coin for a sleepy hobo, a candy for a child, a story for its grandma, and a balloon for—well, everyone, for who didn’t love balloons?

“I wish I were so happy,” said the barber kangaroo as Merry left his shop one day, his red wig neatly trimmed around his prominent ears. “How lovely it must feel to have so much joy you can throw it around like, like—”

“Like dandruff,” supplied a bald beaver patting his dry scalp.

On New Year's Eve, Merry performed his fantastic firework show, which he'd been preparing for months. Everything went just as planned, and his soul feasted on all the spellbound eyes staring upwards, the lights of his heavens reflected in their faces.

Merry’s spirits were at their highest when he approached the bingo drum with anonymous New Year's wishes.

He drew out a piece of paper and read out loud: “Please, God, give me a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, I’m not picky anymore.”

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Merry took another one. “I want to go into whichever gym Miss Elsa goes to and draw her attention by my absolute lack of muscles. The rest shall be history.”

An even louder applause greeted this.

“My sister has leukemia, and I just want her to survive the year.”

The crowd gave a compassionate murmur.

“I want my Mom and Dad to get back together.”

After dozens of similar wishes, Merry pulled out the last slip of paper.

“I want to become a Clown” — Merry’s heart skipped a beat — “just like Tumblenko from Roodlewood.”

As he took a bow to the loudest applause yet, Merry’s head spun. When he got off the stage, he leaned against the street lamp, lest he faint.

What had suddenly gotten into him? He had done his best fireworks ever and had delivered all the punchlines impeccably. Why did he feel so empty then?

He pushed his way through the crowded streets and reached his apartment. Without removing his suit or make-up, he toppled onto his dishevelled sheets. Firecracker explosions flooded the room with light every few seconds, and his cat Aurelius furled onto his chest, trembling with each blast. The room was cold, old windows wide open, and Aurelius scratched Merry’s face, prompting him to close them.

But Merry blankly stared at the ceiling as if hypnotised, visions of the wishes he’d just read floating before his eyes. His co-citizens wished extraordinary things for themselves, wanted to find partners, friends, people to love and who would love them back; they wanted their loved ones to be happy and healthy.

And he, Merry, had no one he loved, not one who loved him back. True to irony and false to his name, he had never come close to happiness or marriage. His heart had leapt at that last note, hoping there was someone out there who appreciated him — maybe even loved him — but that turned out not to be about him at all. Crowds liked him for his jokes and gestures; they didn’t love him for who he was.

He was so selfless, giving all his love away, yet so lonely — how was that fai—

Augustus landed on Merry's face with a loud shriek, digging its claws into his cheeks, and Merry moaned loudly, pulling it off. He got up and closed the creaky windows.

“Here I am boasting of my selflessness and leaving you to suffer from those nasty crackers, my dearest Augustus,” he said, patting the cat on its head.

Augustus purred loudly. Apology accepted.

***

The following morning, Merry tore up his red wig, shredded his pompous suit with scissors, deflated all the balloons, and threw the candies to the pigeons. He removed all the makeup, washed his hair, combed it backwards, and put on his most expensive suit with a grey tie.

The time had finally come for him to fit in and find the love everyone had, time to cure his loneliness. As he sat at the station awaiting a train to the business district, a bearded lion approached him, holding a small cub by its nape.

“Excuse me, are you Clown Merry?” he asked.

Merry shook his head. “No, you must have confused me with someone else.”

“He is, Dad,” the cub roared. “Look at his weird nose, and big ears— Sir, can I have a balloon, please?”

Merry was rescued from this awkward situation by the arrival of the train. Excusing himself, he picked up his briefcase and stepped aboard.

However, no sooner had the train door closed than another scream reached his ears, and a baby raccoon jumped on his face, nipping at his nose and begging for a candy. A mendicant rat skipped four rows of seats to shove the collecting tin right into Merry’s face.

“You must have confused me with someone else,” he repeated, pulling the raccoon off of his face.

He got off at the next station and continued on foot. However, the rest of his trip to town wasn’t much better; people kept pointing their fingers at him and stopped in the middle of the street to ask him for presents.

When he finally reached the Agency tower, his suit was crumpled from all the hands tugging at it, and his shoes muddy from all the kids trampling them.

He wasn't at all surprised when the interviewer — a stocky chimpanzee — greeted him by saying, “You’re the Clown who made those lovely fireworks, right?”

Merry nodded. His pretense ended there, for he certainly couldn’t get a job under a false identity. Indeed, as he had expected, the interviewer asked him for ID.

“Merry Tristan,” the chimpanzee read out loud, “What can I do for you? I'm afraid the time of festivities is past us—”

“I know, Sir,” Merry straightened his suit. “I was hoping to be employed as an agent.”

“You—what?” The chimpanzee choked on his coffee. “Don't get me wrong, Mr Tristan, but no client could ever take you seriously.”

Merry swallowed the blow, sitting even taller. “And how about a job in bureaucracy?”

“What’s your experience in marketing so far?”

Half an hour later, Merry left the tower, and four hours afterwards, he was back on the train home, having been swiftly rejected at all twelve towers in the business district.

He collapsed on his bed next to Augustus, brushing away the tears.

Clowns don't cry, he thought as he drifted to sleep.

Once again, people accepted his candies and balloons, but their smiles no longer made him happy. His heart was suddenly filled with suffocating rage, fueled by unbearable jealousy of their friends, lovers, and families.

He snapped. As the zebra father and his toddler thanked him for the balloons, he plucked one of his buttons and, with its needle, popped the balloons into their faces. Father's outrageous expression and toddler's sobs brought him more exultation than any smile ever had. He mockingly bowed at them and spent the rest of the morning popping balloons into people’s faces.

He spent the lunch break wrapping Augustus’ laxative pills into candy papers and enjoyed the afternoon watching the mothers’ horrified faces as their toddlers spoiled the strollers.

In the evening, he emptied his fireworks stash. He pointed the rockets into the complacent suburban houses, lit the fuses, and danced around in maddening laughter as the fire engulfed the city around him.

Merry felt a scratch on his nose. When he opened his eyes, Augustus’s face covered his entire vision, and the cat’s farts bit at Merry’s nostrils.

He’d been so distraught by the interviews last night that he'd forgotten to give him the laxatives.

Untangling his legs from the sweat-soaked sheets, Merry rose and gave the cat the pill.

His relief at discovering this was only a nightmare was short-lived, for the despair that had driven him to the horrors of the dream was real, and the thought of facing another day spent bringing smiles to faces he'd rather punch was unbearable.

He had to leave Felicia before he lost his mind; before his nightmare came true. He packed a set of spare clothes and a bottle of water, left Augustus with his neighbor, a mare called Cassandra, grabbed his balloons and his hiking staff, and headed eastward.

He left the city at sunset and kept treading the gravel road until dawn, when he spread his hammock between two oaks and fell asleep. After a fortnight of intermittent hiking, the plains of Felicia slowly gave way to the hills of Kovachia, the Land of Slavic miners. He didn't know their language, but soon learned that the Doorstep Lake was called Jezerye Prashkaja and kept asking the locals for directions.

However, his destination wasn’t the Doorstep Lake, but the Zavrshnaja Shuma, about which the locals warned him to steer clear of.

The only thing known about the Final Forest was that whoever stepped among its firs never came back. It stretched along the eastern coast of the Doorstep Lake, its depths defying all methods of exploration — its heart remaining a complete mystery, like the core of a Black Hole.

It can't be worse than this life, thought Merry, rowing a boat across the choppy lake.

When he docked in the bay, he theatrically released all the balloons.

I never liked them much anyway, he thought, watching them float to heaven.

When they were out of sight, he climbed the gravelly shore. The sinking wintry sun painted the forest and the wooden shed in front of it red. Light spilled through the shed’s windows, and smoke curled from its chimney.

Merry assumed it was a ranger’s shed and waited until nightfall before making his move. When darkness finally swallowed the bay, he circled the shed in a wide arc and made his way up the trail, which disappeared in the forest.

The Gates of the Zavrshnaja Shuma.

Shivering with his whole body, Merry mouthed one final prayer and made a step into the Forest. However, his foot struck an invisible curtain, producing a gong-like sound. He tried with the other foot, but with the same result. He slammed into the curtain with all his strength, but it held firm.

Gong. Gong. Gong.

He spotted a small golden keyhole afloat in midair and crouched to examine it when a voice from behind made him jump.

“Kuda ty idyosh?”

A russet vixen was approaching him from the direction of the shed, holding a lantern.

“I'm s-sorry, I d-don't understand—” Merry stammered, nonplussed.

“Vere do you tink yur going?” she said reproachfully with a heavy russian accent, stopping right in front of him.

Merry gulped, but said nothing. He noticed a set of keys — one of them golden like the lock — dangling from her hip, but dared not grab them. Though inferior in size, she was presumably a well-trained ranger.

“Come vit me.”

The shed consisted of a single round room; in the center stood a fireplace, with a cushy armchair on either side. The fire was reduced to hot coals, sending undulating gusts of smoke up the chimney. Red cinders gave the room a spooky glow, chairs casting long shadows into the corners.

“Sit.”

It was an order, not a suggestion.

Merry sank into the closer armchair, and the vixen settled into the other one, crossing her legs. Pretending to absorb his surroundings innocently, Merry scanned the room for spare keys. At the same time, the witch stared thoughtfully at him, reading his story from his mind.

For this vixen was a witch, but a good one, guarding the Final Forest’s border to make sure no one crossed it before their time.

This one is a people-pleaser, she mused, and the soothing will only make him want to feign happiness for my sake, to make me happy. His case will warrant a more aggressive approach.

Merry yelped in surprise as a set of keys landed in his lap.

“Go on!” the witch said provocatively.

Merry sat still, as if frozen to the chair. Then he staggered to his feet and carefully treaded to the door, keeping the vixen in sight, suspecting a trap.

She didn’t blink.

Back in the cold wind, he re-climbed the slope to the forest and approached the keyhole. He slid the golden key into it and turned. He knew the invisible curtain had disappeared by the swishing sound and a rotten-smelling gust of wind that hit him from the darkness.

Zavrshnaja Shuma. Just a step away.

He felt his pulse rise. There was no barrier this time. No fox to save him. His next step would be the end of everything he knew.

A tear trickled down his cheek.

Clowns don't cry, his father's voice echoed in his head.

A few moments passed in silence, broken by Merry's stifled sobs.

Then he reinserted the key into the hole and locked the curtain. He just couldn’t make that step.

He descended the slope and knocked on the vixen’s door.

“Milk, sugar, viskee, or vodka?” she asked from the kitchen when he entered.

“What?”

“Vat do you take your coffya vit?”

“Oh.” He slumped into the armchair. “Milk and sugar.”

She muttered something about Englishmen and pussycats, and soon returned to the fire, placing two steaming mugs on a wooden plank, which hung on the chains above the crate.

“Ve haven't properly introduced,” she said cordially, offering a hand. “I am Tomyshka.”

Merry took her hand, but before he could say anything, she forcefully pulled him onto his feet, bringing his face inches from hers. Wooden plank with their mugs swayed dangerously, struck by their bodies from either side.

“And you arr patetic,” she whispered, her voice suddenly cruel.

Stricken, Merry pulled himself free from her grip and staggered backwards.

“What do you know about me?” he yelled, both angry and afraid.

“You are Clown Merry,” she said disgustedly, as though he were some wiggly slug, “pompously strutting through Felicia with your balloons, face stretched into an evergreen smile, your eye-wrinkles tightly stretched even in your sleep. A good clown — at least you used to be.”

“You’re a witch!” Merry exclaimed, aghast.

“I am!” Tomyshka yelled back. “And, unlike you, I fulfill my duty honorably: not a single soul entered the Zavrshnaja Shuma on my vatch. Do your job and stop crying.”

Tears were once again trickling down Merry's cheeks. “But I can’t feign smiles if I’m sad,” he sobbed.

“CLOWNS DO NOT CRY!!!” she shrieked, in a shrill voice not unlike Merry's mother.

Merry buried his face in his hands. “I want to have a friend, a lover, family—”

“Ve do not have families or friends,” Tomyshka said. “Ve are here to fulfill our duties.”

“But I deserve them just like everyone else!” he stood up, his voice regaining its strength.

“I DESERVE TO LOVE AND BE LOVED!” he yelled at the top of his voice, then toppled to the floor.

She kneeled next to him. “But jokes don't conjure love, do they?”

“No.”

“Your stories are funny, but they are not yours.”

“Yes.”

“And smiles they bring aren’t meant for you.”

“Mhm.”

“Money they give you can't buy you love.”

“Mhm.”

“And the balloons you carry are hollow as your heart.”

“Mhm.”

Her voice got gentler with each sentence, until it became a soft whisper, and her russian accent melted away completely.

“People connect deeply through mutual joy, and even more deeply by sharing pain, and no one — clown or not — should be deprived of that human touch.”

Merry broke down into uncontrollable sobs, violent spasms shaking him from head to foot. Tomyshka huddled onto his chest and gently stroked his shoulders, while his tears soaked both their furs.

Neither could tell if it was minutes or hours before Clown’s sobs subsided, and they both fell asleep in a warm embrace.

When Tomyshka’s husband returned home with their children, he hushed the cubs, lest they wake up their Mom and the snoring Clown.

***

“He was lovely,” said Cassandra, handing the purring Augustus back to Merry, as they stood in the corridor between their apartments.

“Of course he was. He always behaves great everywhere but at home,” said Merry, rubbing the cat’s back with his nose. “Don't you, Augie?”

Augustus meowed his consent.

“He even pooped without the pills,” said Cassandra, proudly pointing at the dirty sandbox.

“Really? How did you do that?”

“Gave him pears.”

“Really?” said Merry in surprise. “You wouldn't eat them last time we tried, Augie.”

“I gave him asian pears,” said the mare.

“Never heard of them. Where can I find them?”

“I pluck them in the Southern fields,” said Cassandra.

She gave the ex-Clown a flirtatious wink. “I can take you someday if you have the time.”

Before Merry could reply, Augustus meowed his consent once more.