Ctibor's Carnivale

Seventeen times the axe came down on his neck, and 17 times the blade left little more than a red mark on his leathery skin. Ctibor loved to prove that he was the toughest clown in the show.
His travelling troupe, ‘Carnivale Grotesque’, was made up of escapees from one of the last circus freak shows in Russia.
For ten years he had paraded before aghast spectators who stared and pointed and even wept when confronted with his crocodilian skin and bat-like wings. Ctibor, like his freak friends – Jiri, The Volcanic Boy; Kseniya, Daughter of Wolf; and Pyotr, The Kid With A Breast For A Face – was exhibited in a cage, in case this strange demonic beast should choose to run amok, flapping around the big top and dropping onto pregnant women to devour their unborn.
The cage was really just for show, and Ctibor's wings were actually useless sheets of skin which billowed in a strong wind. Behind the scenes he and his fellow freaks were just another act, just another group of performers. They weren’t feared by the other circus folk but they were seen, at best, as the bottom rung of talent. At worst they were despised and spat upon by the strongmen and acrobats. Even the dancing bears would receive dinner before them.
While each member was a free citizen, the ringmaster and circus owner, Vladimir Lebedev, would tell them when they complained: “You’re free to leave, of course, but who would love you, who would protect you as I have? You will be hunted wherever you go. The Furies of society will pursue you mercilessly, like Frankenstein pursued his damned creation. Stay in peace, with me, the only father you’ve ever known. Your needless ends will only make my sorrows longer.”
Master Vladimir had a Siren’s tongue, at once preaching fear and love. So many times he had quieted the rage of his mutant family. So many times he had coaxed them back into their kennels.
It took the events of a drunken night in the wilds of Rostov to snap the freakshow from the bonds of their travelling companions. Alexei, on checking the snares he always set around the campsite, found that he had caught a beautiful she-wolf. A proud and furious animal, the lion-tamer dragged the netted creature into the ring created by all who had gathered to share vodka.
Jeers filled the space. Stones, sticks and empty bottles were tossed towards the creature. Kseniya screamed at them to stop the torture. She clawed and bit the men who held her back; she howled and sobbed. The party ended with the wolf being thrown into the lion’s cage. In the early hours, three friends, three brothers, consoled the wolf-girl and prepared their departure.
Setting out into the night, they existed among ancient Russian forests for eight months, shunning a society that meant to destroy them. They survived on berries and squirrels, but as the winter began to bite the only sustenance offered came from Pyotr’s frozen nipple. Jiri offered them what heat he could, but Ctibor knew the time had come to lead his band once again, just as he had for so many years of their circus lives.
He took them to the Czech border, he made sure they all crossed into Czechoslovakia. Then they headed for a town, a place on the borders of all they had known, at the edge of society. A wolf dog was sensed by Kseniya and the gang followed its tracks down to the outskirts of Ostrava.
Much occurred, of both horror and sorrow, joy and victory, before the birth of Carnivale Grotesque and the success of the popular touring show we can all enjoy today (albeit in a tamer form to its earliest incarnation in the taverns and theatres of Ostrava).
He may now be a star of the internet and small screens across Europe, but Ctibor will never forget where he came from and how much he owes to that special group of freaks he calls family.