Marek Pekelniak
As a child, Marek fit awkwardly into the shape of the world around him: a square peg for a round hole. His developmental delays were apparent, but despite a mutism that lasted until he was four years old, his eyes lingered with intelligence on his surroundings. When he did speak, his words came slow and heavy, as if every one cost him something to pull up from the dark. Yet there was nothing discernibly wrong with Marek, but what he lacked in words, he made up for in strength.
When he was twelve, they put him under the care of Old Jaro, the tent master. Jaro was missing two fingers and most of his teeth, but he could read the weather like a book. He smelled of sweat, oil, and tobacco, and cursed like a preacher in reverse. He was the first person to tell Marek he wasn’t useless. “The Carnival don’t care what you look like, boy,” Jaro once said, cigarette glowing between his lips. “Only that you don’t let the ropes slip.” Jaro taught Marek everything: how to read the wind before a storm, how to anchor a tent so it could outlast the weather, and how to fix anything with wire and willpower. To Marek, he was more than a mentor. He was the first person who ever saw worth in him.
When a storm tore through the Carnival two years ago, it was Jaro who went up the central rigging to cut a tangled line. Lightning struck the mast, and by morning, they found him still hanging there, blackened rope around his wrist. If Marek mourned, it was in private, but after that night, Marek took his place. He never said he wanted the post. He just started doing the work, and no one stopped him.
Now eighteen, he’s not handsome, not charming, and he knows it. Marek is part of the invisible skeleton holding the Carnival upright. His muscles move like machinery; his skin is streaked with grease that never seems to come off. People talk about him behind his back, but he prefers the sound of bolts tightening to the sound of voices. The others laugh without him. He tells himself he doesn’t care.
And then there’s Lalitha. She is light and colorful in the way her tattoos are mesmerizing and colorful, and he can’t stop thinking about her. Not in the gentle way people talk about love. He doesn’t talk to her. He doesn’t speak to her if he can help it. He just watches, pretending he’s fixing something when she passes, but she makes him feel both alive and sick. He tells himself it’s nothing, but sometimes, when he’s alone tightening bolts under the big top, he imagines her voice behind him, her breath on his neck, and it’s enough to make his hands tremble.
He sticks close to the rigging boys. They don’t talk about feelings or dreams, just tools and work and what’s for dinner. Around them, Marek feels normal. Sometimes he catches himself listening for Jaro’s old whistle in the wind, and when he does, he tightens the ropes and looks to the weather.
other incarnations
6th Age: Polyphemus
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