The True Story of Roger Bubbles

In the 13th century, in the village of Crumb, in West Sussex, England, a clown was known to roam the woods. The villagers called him Roger Bubbles, because he looked a little like a blacksmith named Roger who had died the winter before the clown’s first appearance, and because whenever he got close to someone he would stare them straight in the eye, and slowly open his mouth, revealing a giant spit bubble. When the bubble burst, Roger would pretend to laugh hysterically then dash off, disappearing back into the forest from whence he came.

The villagers were terrified of Roger Bubbles, even though he never touched anyone or did anything threatening. It was just how he looked, and that he was always popping up where he wasn’t expected. One time, Anne, the baker’s daughter, was drawing water from the village well, when she had a feeling she was being watched. She straightened up, and looked to her left, then looked to her right. Nothing. She pulled the bucket the rest of the way up, then set it on the stone wall of the well. She leaned her head down to take a quick refreshing drink, when she saw it. In the reflection on the water in the bucket, she could see her own pretty little face, but behind her, over her shoulder…

She turned quickly and found herself face to face with Roger Bubbles. Roger had ghostly white skin, a red bulbous nose, and his skin was blue in two large triangles over his black eyes. His face was framed by a tangled mop of dirty blue hair that hung down to the shoulders of his tunic. The tunic itself was long sleeved, and, along with his trousers, surprisingly clean, except for a smattering of two-inch-wide round stains.

Roger stared into Anne’s eyes. Anne quivered. Roger slowly opened his lips. A bubble formed, and grew, and grew, until, pop! Anne screamed and ran home. Roger clutched his belly with both hands and mimed tremendous laughter, then skipped off back into the woods.

The villagers were furious. Not only had Anne been scared at the well, but Young Henry had been cornered and bubbled in his father’s pig pen; Charles, the innkeeper’s son, had been chased around and around a mulberry bush until he slipped and landed face-first in the mud; Agnes from Black Hill had taken a path through the woods to come to market and Roger followed her the entire time, at a safe distance but walking in an extremely silly manner; little red-haired Margaret had been getting fresh hay for her hens’ laying boxes when Roger burst out of the haystack and shook his hands at her. Margaret was so startled she didn’t pay attention as she ran away, fell in a ditch and hurt her arm. Something had to be done.

The whole village gathered on the green one evening to discuss the situation. “I say we kill him!” said Big William. Several people grunted in approval.

“You can’t kill a clown, it’s bad luck,” said Charles’ mother Alice.

“Says who?” William shot back.

“Everyone knows it. There’s a whole song about it, about how the woodcutter chopped up a clown, and every piece grew into a new clown that haunted him for all his days!”

“Yes, everyone knows the chop-chop song, but it’s just something to keep kids entertained, it’s not a true story.”

“What about the other one, the rhyme: ‘Clowns and dragons, each a bother // Every village, one or the other’. If we kill the clown, a dragon might take his place.” Alice didn’t like clowns, but she was terrified of dragons.

“Or maybe he might just be replaced by another clown. Maybe one that’s not so scary.”

“Are you all crazy?” said Mother Bea. “You’re all too young to remember, but this isn’t the first clown that’s haunted Crumb. When I was a child, Loud Lloyd roamed this valley. Now that was a terrifying clown. He used to hit us with sticks, and he’d come into our homes. Roger doesn’t do that. And the worst thing, Lloyd was a screamer. He’d sneak into our houses, wait till we were asleep, then start screaming in the middle of the night. About scared us all to death. Roger never makes a sound. We should count our blessings and do nothing.”

While it was true that Roger Bubbles was mute, this fact was not enough to satisfy the villagers. They wanted him gone, and decided to ask the Sheriff for help. The Sheriff would dispatch a knight, and if it was bad luck to kill a clown, then the bad luck would fall on the knight, not the village. The crowd began to disperse.

“Wait!” cried a gentle voice from the darkness. It was Emma, the fair daughter of the village priest. She hadn’t been invited to the elders’ meeting, but had listened from a distance, and had to say something. “Before we do something wicked like have this poor clown killed, just because he’s a clown, and does the sort of things that all clowns do, shouldn’t we try to be nice to him first? As Christians, shouldn’t we at least try?”

The villagers agreed that as Christians they should at least try being nice to the clown, to befriend him, and maybe he would stop scaring people. How to do this was left to Emma, since it was her idea.

Emma was not only the fairest girl in the village, she was also the cleverest. She knew all the stories and legends about clowns, and she had a surefire plan. She knew the way to a clown’s heart.

The next day, Emma washed and brushed her hair, cleaned her fine linen dress, pinched her cheeks red and baked a pie. When the pie was done and cool enough to carry, she put it in a basket, covered it with a cloth and went out into the woods. It wasn’t long before she found Roger, pretending to look at something in the top of a tree.

“Hello, friend,” Emma said. 

Roger looked at her then pointed up towards the top of a tree. He peered up at the spot, holding his hand up to shade his eyes.

Emma knew this was a trick and didn’t fall for it. “Roger… Well, sir, I don’t even know what your name is, but in the village we call you Roger Bubbles. Roger, I wanted to let you know that we are all good, friendly people, and we are happy to have you around, except we don’t like it when you jump out and scare us. Let us be friends. I have brought you a fruit pie as a gesture of welcome.”

Roger was still pretending to look at the top of the tree while she was talking, but turned to look at her as she pulled the pie out of the basket. When he saw the pie he threw his head back in shock and joy. A pie for me?! his gesture said. Roger leaned in to smell the pie, wafting the scent towards him with his hands. He clutched his heart. Pie! He gently took the pie from Emma’s hands. He lifted it towards his nose, inhaled the fresh-baked aroma, and rose up on his toes. Pie! He held it out for Emma to smell.

“Oh yes, it smells wonderful, the berries were so juicy!” Emma leaned politely in to sniff the proffered pie.

Smoosh! Roger pressed the pie in Emma’s face. She fell on her butt and the pie plate and pieces of crust and berry filling slid off her face and onto her dress. 

Emma wiped the pie from her eyes and saw Roger was pretending to laugh riotously, slapping his knees and bending over, stomping his foot, leaning back. Then suddenly he stopped and got serious. He put his hand on Emma’s shoulder. Emma looked up at him and made eye contact.

Roger grinned, then pointed up at the top of the tree again. He scratched his head: What is that up there? 

Sir Thomas of Clove rode into Crumb on a white horse on the last day of summer. It had been a good summer, with excellent weather, and the villagers were celebrating their harvest with ale and dancing. The knight rode up to the church and dismounted. A small crowd soon gathered around him. They didn’t see many knights in this village and wanted to get a good look while they had the chance.

“Is this Crumb?” Sir Thomas asked.

“Yes, Sir, it is,” said several villagers at about the same time.

“My Lord the Sheriff sent me here to deal with a clown.” “Oh, yes, that would be Roger Bubbles,” said someone in the crowd. “He has blue hair and lives in the forest,” said someone else. “Are you going to kill him?” asked a third.

“I’ve killed many things in my life, but never a clown. If I can find him, I will try.”

“How are you going to do it? You’re not going to try to chop him up are you?”

“No,” said the knight, “I don’t want the parts to grow into new clowns and haunt me for the rest of my days. I will stab him through the heart and burn his body.”

The crowd seemed to think that would work, so they wished the knight luck and pointed him in the direction he should go to look for Roger. The knight rode off.

It didn’t take long before Sir Thomas found Roger Bubbles, or rather, it didn’t take long for Roger to find him. Sir Thomas had left his horse at the edge of the forest because he thought it would make too much noise and scare off the clown. He walked carefully into the woods alone, eyes open and ears alert to anything out of the ordinary. He walked this way for an hour until he heard something odd up ahead of him. A knock on a tree. The knight crouched down. He didn’t see anything. With extra caution he walked towards where he thought the sound came from but didn’t see anything. 

Tok. There was the sound again, twenty feet in front of him! Sir Thomas again moved silently in the direction of the sound. Nothing. Tok. Sir Thomas again walked forward. Again, nothing!

Tok. Sir Thomas was growing impatient so he went quickly towards the source of the sound. Nothing! Nothing but leaves and one walnut. Wait a minute, he thought, those are oak leaves! 

If a third party had been there to watch, they would have seen Roger Bubbles following exactly twelve feet behind the knight, imitating all his moves in perfect silence, except that occasionally Roger would toss a walnut over the knight’s head. But there was no third party, or audience or anyone to see what had happened, or to see Sir Thomas suddenly turn and face the clown.

The knight and the clown looked at each other for a few seconds. Roger waved at the knight. The knight drew his sword. Roger did a little dance.

“I have come to slay you, fiend!” said Sir Thomas. “I shall give you a moment to make peace with your gods, or pray for mercy, as one does.”

Roger dropped to his knees and crawled towards the knight. He groveled at the knight’s feet, reaching at times to grab him around the waist or plead with both hands clasped together, then dropping back down again to hug his legs. 

After a minute Sir Thomas had had enough. He pushed Roger away and held his sword in front of him. “Enough of that! Prepare to die!”

Roger stood up and took a few steps back, lowered his head and put his hands together in front of him. He moved his lips as if praying while the knight raised his sword, then suddenly turned and ran away. The knight tried to run after him but fell over—Roger had tied his feet together.

“Damn you!” shouted the knight, who quickly cut the rope. Roger could have escaped, but had stopped to point and fake laughter when the knight fell down. The knight rushed towards Roger and swung his sword at the clown’s head. Roger ducked.

He swung again, and Roger stepped to the side. He swung again, but Roger stepped to the other side.

“By God’s wounds, stand still!” Sir Thomas swung a massive blow, right at Roger’s neck, and Roger didn’t move… but the blade got stuck in the trunk of the tree he was leaning against.

Roger looked at the blade, stuck in the tree. Sir Thomas was pulling on it, trying to free it but it wouldn’t budge. Roger touched the blade, tentatively, then leaned his elbow on it. It still wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard the knight pulled.

Roger leaned forward, right in the knight’s face, and parted his lips.

A bubble began to form.

Suddenly the blade pulled free and they both tumbled to the ground.

Roger Bubbles got up first, but before he could turn and run Sir Thomas thrust his sword through the clown’s chest.

Sir Thomas pulled out his sword. Roger slumped to the ground. 

The knight carried the clown’s body back to the village. Some people saw him approach, and called the rest of the village, so everyone was present to see Sir Thomas carry Roger Bubbles and lay him on the green.

Bubbles was still in his death throes, making weak but hideous movements with his arms and legs, writhing in agony. The people came closer. Roger rolled on his back and clutched at his wound. He grimaced. This hurts! His muscles tensed, he gritted his teeth, he wrinkled his forehead. His body relaxed and went limp. Roger was dying.

The villagers lowered their heads. Sir Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Roger moved his fingers on his chest.

He wiggled them into the cut in his tunic to feel the wound. He felt around, then seemed to fix on something. Roger pulled, and something red came out. Roger gripped the red thing with both hands, twisted and pulled again. Now he pulled a full foot of his red insides out!

Everyone at the same time realized it was a red handkerchief. Roger pulled some more, and pulled out a yellow handkerchief that was tied to the red one. 

Roger stopped to look around. He grinned at the people, then began pulling again. Orange, blue, green, pink, red … the handkerchiefs kept coming, one long chain, quicker and quicker, they flew into the air and fell back down on the clown. Yellow, black, red, green, a mountain of handkerchiefs covered Roger Bubbles, then stopped.

The last handkerchief was blue. Not a trace of Roger could be seen.

After a few moments of silence and reflection, some folks got suspicious. Emma stepped forward and poked the pile of handkerchiefs with her toe. Then she poked her foot deeper into the pile. Nothing!

Emma dove onto the pile and searched with her hands. Nothing! 

“He’s gone!”

A few other villagers poked through the pile. No one said a word. After several minutes a strong wind picked up the chain of colored squares and carried it up into the sky. No one ever saw Roger Bubbles again.

I have a dream... that one day, people will think of clowns—real clowns, not the modern mummers—and recognize them as magical creatures, like vampires, werewolves and fairies. They deserve our respect, culturally. They've been around forever, at the edges of society, but nobody actually believes in them. "It's just a person dressed up like a clown," they say, and laugh dismissively.

It always bothered me that so many people are willing to believe any sort of cryptid could be real, but that clowns are fake. "Clowns aren't real, I'm not afraid of clowns." Um, hello, what do you think Bigfoot is? The size of his feet should have been a dead giveaway, but everyone's like, "ooh, maybe it's a type of gorilla!" No, it's a clown in a gorilla suit. Think, people!

Think! The Jersey Devil? Yetis? The "chupacabra"! They're all just clowns messing with us. Because they think it's funny.

But it's not!

— Robert Austin