Every night, after the king of Gévaudan began to snore, Pierrot would slip from his master’s chambers, cross the flagstones of the great hall, pass the smouldering hearth and the empty suits of armour, to stop outside Columbine’s door. Here, he’d whistle a mournful tune, the one way he allowed himself to profess his love. He would whistle beautifully, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato. After, Pierrot would scuttle down past the kitchen (where he stole bottles of wine), outside, past the cesspit (and Claude, the miserable gong farmer), and through the wrought iron gates of the menagerie. Finally, our friend would sit on the gravel path, remove his hat with its tinkling bells, and uncork his first bottle. He’d complain to the flamingos, standing like ruffled dusters in their murky pool. “Mon dieu!” he’d cry, glugging the wine. “What am I to do? All day I sing and dance to make them laugh. And, sure, they laugh, but no one cares about Pierrot!” The flamingos, trying to sleep, would hiss, and he’d shoo away their complaints and drag his wine bottle down the path to where the hippopotamus slept. “All I really want,” he’d continue, leaning over to look down at the hippo, “is someone who wants to know what I feel! What Pierrot really feels!” The hippopotamus would snort in irritation and slip noiselessly beneath the black surface of the pool. Looking down into its darkness, Pierrot’s white painted face bobbed, round and alone like the moon. He’d cry. And the still water would ripple.
Everything changed after the hyena arrived.
At lunch, the king was particularly listless and Pierrot particularly glum. Columbine sat at one end of the banquet table, not noticing him. As Pierrot juggled, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Pierrot!” the king whined. “You’re no fun today!” He darted his small, kingly eyes back and forth, settling on a fresh braise just lugged up from the kitchen. “Eat!” he demanded. “But no blowing!”
Pierrot sighed. He’d played this game before, and he knew it was no fun. The king looked around at all his nobles, snickering and rubbing their hands together. Pierrot filled a spoon with the piping hot stew, glanced up at the ceiling in something like prayer, and took the burning food in his mouth. The king howled with laughter, as poor Pierrot turned red; his tongue burnt numb and blistered.
Columbine was staring out the window.
“It’s time for my nap,” said the king. “Jester! To my chambers! Sing me a lullaby!” Pierrot slunk behind the royal procession, his bells tinkling softly, the roof of his mouth beginning to peel. “Princess, what’s wrong?” Columbine’s lady in waiting was saying as Pierrot passed. “You’ve hardly touched your stew!” “I’ve barely slept this week!” Columbine groaned. “A bird whistles outside my door every night.” “Like a nightingale?” said the lady. Columbine wrinkled her nose. “Like a seagull. With a head cold. It’s a nightmare.”
“A seagull with a head cold!” Pierrot slurred to the flamingos that night. “I was crushed!” The flamingos hissed, and Pierrot lurched to his feet, raising the bottle to throw, but something interrupted him: laughter peeling through the darkness likehell’s worst demon had heard the world’s funniest joke. As if in a trance, Pierrot marched towards the sound. In a cage at the end of the path was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen.
Hulking, scruffy, with huge round shoulders and a neck as thick as Pierrot’s waist, it shuffled back and forth across the dirt. And it was laughing high, tittering, crazed little giggles. He considered the animal for a while, listened to its chuckles. “Now that’s nightmarish,” Pierrot said. “Beast, what do you think? Do I whistle like a sick sea bird?” Pierrot pursed his lips, and his song rang out: mournful, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato. The beast paused and listened, its head cocked to one side. When Pierrot was done, it burst into otherworldly laughter. Pierrot blushed with shame, and his shame—like shame is wont to do—twisted into hate. “Friend,” Pierrot whispered. “How would you like to play a trick?” The beast laughed some more, raising its head in the air, and in his drunken fog, Pierrot saw a nod.
“Columbine,” he said. “She has no humour. No romance.” Pierrot shook his head. “She doesn’t notice my jokes, says my love songs are nightmares.” His frown split into a twisted grin. “I say we show her a real nightmare.” The beast had stopped laughing now. It was sitting in the middle of its cage, staring at Pierrot. It seemed to be listening. “We’ll creep to her room, and I’ll whistle while you start that terrific laughter!” Pierrot felt drunk and evil and in his intoxicated mind glimmered a deeper fantasy, one where a terrified Columbine fell into his arms. “That’ll show her,” he said, rubbing his white painted hands together.
Pierrot stumbled towards the cage like a fly drawn to Claude, the miserable gong farmer. The beast watched him quietly as he fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open with a long creak. Of course, as soon as the hyena realized it was free, it devoured Pierrot, and his ghost cartwheeled into the sky’s darkness.
Pierrot’s ghost watched the hyena chuckle to itself as it ate his body. Then it hopped into the flamingo pool and mauled the squawking birds. He watched it giggle out of the menagerie, up the path, past Claude the miserable gong farmer and into the mountains behind the castle. Pierrot’s ghost kept tabs for months, as the hyena terrorized Gévaudan, eating cows and sheep and people, laughing all the while, inspiring stories about loose demons and Satan. At first, he enjoyed the destruction, but soon, he felt sorry for causing so much trouble. Now that he was dead, he realized things shouldn’t matter to him so much anymore. The hyena roamed around killing things until someone named Jean Chastel shot it dead. The king considered having Jean executed for damaging his property, but let him marry Columbine instead, who was pleased enough with the arrangement because Jean was brave and told her what was on his mind. Despite his newfound wisdom, Pierrot kicked himself for causing the union. Disregarding his beatitude, he smiled when Columbine yawned at the reception—she was bored: there were no jesters. Pierrot knew, being dead, he was beyond that kind of pettiness. He knew his trifles while living was nothing in the infinite universe. But still, he smiled.
Everything changed after the hyena arrived.
At lunch, the king was particularly listless and Pierrot particularly glum. Columbine sat at one end of the banquet table, not noticing him.
As Pierrot juggled, she rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“Pierrot!” the king whined. “You’re no fun today!” He darted his small, kingly eyes back and forth, settling on a fresh braise just lugged up from the kitchen.
“Eat!” he demanded. “But no blowing!”
Pierrot sighed. He’d played this game before, and he knew it was no fun.
The king looked around at all his nobles, snickering and rubbing their hands together.
Pierrot filled a spoon with the piping hot stew, glanced up at the ceiling in something like prayer, and took the burning food in his mouth.
The king howled with laughter, as poor Pierrot turned red; his tongue burnt numb and blistered.
Columbine was staring out the window.
“It’s time for my nap,” said the king. “Jester! To my chambers! Sing me a lullaby!”
Pierrot slunk behind the royal procession, his bells tinkling softly, the roof of his mouth beginning to peel.
“Princess, what’s wrong?” Columbine’s lady in waiting was saying as Pierrot passed. “You’ve hardly touched your stew!”
“I’ve barely slept this week!” Columbine groaned. “A bird whistles outside my door every night.”
“Like a nightingale?” said the lady.
Columbine wrinkled her nose. “Like a seagull. With a head cold. It’s a nightmare.”
“A seagull with a head cold!” Pierrot slurred to the flamingos that night. “I was crushed!”
The flamingos hissed, and Pierrot lurched to his feet, raising the bottle to throw, but something interrupted him: laughter peeling through the darkness like hell’s worst demon had heard the world’s funniest joke.
As if in a trance, Pierrot marched towards the sound.
In a cage at the end of the path was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen.
Hulking, scruffy, with huge round shoulders and a neck as thick as Pierrot’s waist, it shuffled back and forth across the dirt.
And it was laughing high, tittering, crazed little giggles.
He considered the animal for a while, listened to its chuckles.
“Now that’s nightmarish,” Pierrot said. “Beast, what do you think? Do I whistle like a sick sea bird?”
Pierrot pursed his lips, and his song rang out: mournful, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato.
The beast paused and listened, its head cocked to one side. When Pierrot was done, it burst into otherworldly laughter.
Pierrot blushed with shame, and his shame—like shame is wont to do—twisted into hate.
“Friend,” Pierrot whispered. “How would you like to play a trick?”
The beast laughed some more, raising its head in the air, and in his drunken fog, Pierrot saw a nod.
“Columbine,” he said. “She has no humour. No romance.” Pierrot shook his head. “She doesn’t notice my jokes, says my love songs are nightmares.” His frown split into a twisted grin. “I say we show her a real nightmare.”
The beast had stopped laughing now. It was sitting in the middle of its cage, staring at Pierrot. It seemed to be listening.
“We’ll creep to her room, and I’ll whistle while you start that terrific laughter!” Pierrot felt drunk and evil and in his intoxicated mind glimmered a deeper fantasy, one where a terrified Columbine fell into his arms.
“That’ll show her,” he said, rubbing his white painted hands together.
Pierrot stumbled towards the cage like a fly drawn to Claude, the miserable gong farmer. The beast watched him quietly as he fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open with a long creak.
Of course, as soon as the hyena realized it was free, it devoured Pierrot, and his ghost cartwheeled into the sky’s darkness.
Pierrot’s ghost watched the hyena chuckle to itself as it ate his body. Then it hopped into the flamingo pool and mauled the squawking birds. He watched it giggle out of the menagerie, up the path, past Claude the miserable gong farmer and into the mountains behind the castle.
Pierrot’s ghost kept tabs for months, as the hyena terrorized Gévaudan, eating cows and sheep and people, laughing all the while, inspiring stories about loose demons and Satan. At first, he enjoyed the destruction, but soon, he felt sorry for causing so much trouble. Now that he was dead, he realized things shouldn’t matter to him so much anymore.
The hyena roamed around killing things until someone named Jean Chastel shot it dead.
The king considered having Jean executed for damaging his property, but let him marry Columbine instead, who was pleased enough with the arrangement because Jean was brave and told her what was on his mind.
Despite his newfound wisdom, Pierrot kicked himself for causing the union.
Disregarding his beatitude, he smiled when Columbine yawned at the reception—she was bored: there were no jesters.
Pierrot knew, being dead, he was beyond that kind of pettiness. He knew his trifles while living was nothing in the infinite universe.
But still, he smiled.
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