As the riggers struggle to keep the red and white tent aloft, cold misery drizzles down from a leaden sky. Soon, they will set the riding ring beneath. Locked in my wagon, I am overwhelmed by the scents of the season, mud, leaf mold and decay. An anniversary of sorts.
Ours is a small circus. One score and seven souls spread like tinkers across a dozen brightly painted wagons, plus me in mine. And a menagerie, if I dare call it that. Franque used to bill it as two by two until hard times settled over us. My curse has followed me across the ocean. When America descended into civil war, brother against brother, I had fled eastward, always eastward. Ireland had slipped deeper into poverty. Then with the death of her lover last year, the queen had fallen out of public sight. A dark pall hangs across her land like the long, gray veil of an English autumn.
Now we can barely afford canvas. Most of what we have has been patched and restitched a hundred times. Like the silk that forms my costume. But in the footlights, no one will notice.
The ancient lion and the mangy bear growl nearby and pace their cages. They haven’t been fed in days. Soon, we’ll have to slaughter another mule. Not until we reach Hull or York, Franque says. Besides, hunger makes them roar. The same way it keeps Satan mean while he prowls the grounds at night on massive yet silent paws. I always reserve a few scraps for him so he will linger near my door. My canine companion. My one true guardian, now as before. Besides, I hate seeing any of God’s creatures suffer. Not that Franque feeds us much either. He pays to keep us thin. But I don’t need as much as the other women anyway.
I wonder about the name this place. I feel a pull like it’s the namesake of somewhere I’ve once been. I know we’ve crossed the Humber and are deep in the East Riding of Yorkshire. I ask Franque through the bars of my window when he comes knocking.
“Spalding Moor,” he calls as he walks away, “Land of Nod or something. Just a village where we can earn a few crowns. Now get ready to take your place.”
I paint my face up bright like the wagons, not that anyone will see. Prudence and Patience have taught me a few tricks from their homeland including how to rim my eyes with charcoal. I brush my hair until it gleams like obsidian velvet. Where once it shone like spun gold, it had come back in as black as midnight after the war had burned it away. Then, I thought it a badge of honor. Now, it is my stain.
I don my little brocade vest and a simple, white silk kirtle, both slit in back to accommodate my features. I fumble with the hooks and buttons, my fingers stiff and cold. Finally, I dab a little rose water with the tiny stopper from a cut glass bottle, wrists, ears, and a thin trail descending into my vest. Clutching my brush and slippers, I huddle beneath a heavy cloak and wait.
Soon, one of the Brothers Dunkel comes to escort me, Mattheus tonight. He turns the key and releases me into the circus yard. The rain has eased. With the slap of a hand against his thigh and a quick “here, boy,” he calls Satan to his side. The black mastiff bounds over from beneath the cages where he was sniffing around for fallen meat.
We slip between the shadows of the wagons, Mattheus the athletic Teutonic warrior in his harlequin tights, me a hunchback in my cloak. We both dodge the deepest puddles, trying not to spatter our costumes with mud.
We slide into the back of the sideshow tent through an untied slit in the canvas. The other women are already in their places along the dark path the patrons will wend through. The Seven Heavenly Virtues of Human Oddities and Arielle the Fallen. A private collection of bustiers, corsets and whalebone stays modeled by the exotic freaks of womankind. Close enough to the gawking crowd that an ambitious hand might brush silk, and often did.
Franque has a cruel sense of humor, renaming each of his women according to his unholy wit. Chastity the bearded, Charity the legless, Love the eyeless, Faith the midget, Hope the giantess, Prudence and Patience the Siamese twins. Prudence is trussed up like a proper English lady, Patience partially undone like a Parisian tart. Two torsos, one pair of legs. Two girls, one goal. Franque’s little joke. Even the hyena no longer laughs.
Many of the other women speak no English, or, like Hope, some dialect I can barely understand. I should be drawn to them like sisters but they are weak, exploitable, too much like my lesser brethren in the war. We had sought to rule this place but never envisioned our freedom would look like this.
I have no idea where Franque discovered them, or whether, like me, they had sought him out. From the whispers I’ve heard, I suspect not. But they are fed in a time when many poor, deformed Londoners starve to death.
Like the others, my body is my attraction and my disgrace. In a niche out of reach, I sit on a stool behind a black curtain with two oval floor mirrors stationed to either side. For my protection Franque says, just like the lock on my wagon door. Their position conceals my face, but sidelights shine across my body. Each night, I play the country lady brushing her long, loose hair at a dressing table in her little vest and kirtle, the village voyeurs beyond the window unnoticed. My fair, unblemished skin set off by raven hair.
The antique, rippled glass obscures the view. Franque says that makes the encounter all the more titillating. But my risqué attire is a sideshow to his sideshow. All anyone really wants is to catch a glimpse of my wings. An angel in the footlights.
The patrons tour our tent before the show, never after. With us, Franque throws in his small menagerie. Pharaoh the lion, Goliath the bear, Hared the purportedly laughing hyena, Pilate the Burmese python, Charles and Emma the unruly chimpanzees, and a pair of unnamed ostriches.
The crowd starts through, mostly anonymous men masked in stale sweat, dung-spattered boots and bawdy laughter. A few young women with high giggles behind the rustle of their skirts. No children. Ever. We are not a sight for under-developed eyes, not at half a crown. No circus is. Franque has three riggers stationed throughout the tent in case anyone lets his imagination rule him. Satan sits guard before my curtain, snarling and snapping if anyone strays too close. A little fun with the other girls is fine. No one takes so much as a step toward me.
Night after night, I brush and stretch, touch up my makeup, twirl my hair, apply more rose water, trace the outlines of my vest, all just as I’ve been taught. None of this is instinctive. I have never gotten used to my gender since the day I’d been cast into it. This is my lot in life now, waiting to be chosen, waiting to fulfill another’s dream. A lady in waiting. They also serve the penance of the damned.
Midway through the night’s procession of prying eyes, I freeze mid-brushstroke as I sense a gaze upon me, cold and naked. This one has a different hunger. I can smell the stain upon him like the gin he drinks like water and wears like cheap cologne. I shrink away, wishing I could hide. I am thankful he cannot see my face, though I’m certain he spots the color rising from my chest. He lingers long enough that Satan sits up and growls then grumbles as he resettles.
Minutes after comes the lull. The main show must have started. In the quieter moments, I hear the rising and falling susurration of the crowd like the faint, wheezy breath of a dying man. The order of the acts is well established by applause. First, the four Brothers Dunkel, imported directly from the Rhineland, tumbling and juggling in their parti-colored tights. Then Yuri the Cossack, captured in Crimea, cantering his pale horse around the ring, standing or handstanding bareback, then slipping under and around, all while brandishing his wicked saber. Rafael the Spanish blade swallows a flaming sword of the finest Toledo steel then nips the tassels from Temperance’s already scanty costume with his toothy little knives. Franque, armed in his bright red waistcoat and coal black top hat with pistol and whip, sprinkles his acts between. He tames the lion, baits the bear, wrestles the serpent, guides the chimps dressed in genteel country finery through a proper English tea. Gabe the clown announces each new act with a flourish of his horn, and keeps up a running commentary of ribald jokes and double entendres.
Temperance, when her back or side is not pressed against Rafael’s target board, plies the crowd with shots of cheap gin from a tray slung around her neck. Most of the men are more interested coaxing her naked shoulders within arm’s reach in hopes of caressing her burgundy dress or black crisscrossed tights. She assures me these encounters are tamer than her previous profession. I only shrug. I’ve done my time as both a diva and a whore.
I have never witnessed the performances from inside the big tent. None of the sideshow women have. But I have watched all the men practice daily from the confines of my wagon for more than a year. I have sniffed out all their dirty laundry. The Dunkels are Dutch not Deutsche, and aren’t really brothers. Yuri was born in Chester. The closest Rafael has come to Spain was the month we traveled Kent. Gabe is a Frenchman but that would never sell. I don’t know from what distant land Franque first hailed, or what ill-conceived bargain he had crafted that had brought him me. Only the women and animals are exactly what they seem.
Soon, another Dunkel escort arrives to chaperone me back to my wagon, once again under wraps. This time it’s the twins, Marcus and Lucas. We dodge across the fair grounds, Marcus keeping watch then waving Lucas and I on once the way is clear. Nearly home and dry, we almost run smack into the path of a charging Goliath as Franque furiously drives him back to his cage.
Before the heavy wooden door seals me in, I hear Franque call out to Marcus, “Generous crowd tonight. Tell her to get ready for an encore.”
A few hours later it’s Johann, the last of the Brothers Dunkel, who retrieves me. He also collects Satan who lies curled beneath my steps. The camp has been quiet for nearly an hour. All the guests have gone, at least for the moment. Soon, in ones and twos, a select few will file back in concealed by night.
The moon peeks out shyly from between the clouds. I shiver. A chill has moved in after the rain. Beneath my cloak I still wear the diaphanous silk shift and my little vest. We quickly traverse the campsite, careful now to skirt the freshly added dung. We slip into the main tent shrouded in darkness.
Soot, sweat and stale gin from the previous performance mingle with scent of wet canvas. By flickering footlights we navigate to the pole in the center of the ring. I can almost make out the small, circular platform like a crow’s nest near the peak of the tent. Clutching the built-in handholds, I begin to climb.
I crouch in the tiny space beneath the pointed cap of canvas. The riding ring looks like a half-buried bone china saucer so far below. I am not afraid. Encores are the one freedom my existence now allows, as close as I come to returning to my true nature from before the war. The riding ring is a tight circle for my performance, but if Yuri can cling to it at a gallop so can I.
Slowly, the tent refills, all men this time. Temperance dodges amongst them with fresh gin. Franque keeps the lights low. Our performers and riggers ring the crowd with stout Irish cudgels. Franque is once again armed with his pistol and a whip as if these patrons are yet more wild animals to be trained. I wait to make my appearance until they all are nearly falling down drunk. Tonight’s crowd is more sullen than most.
The tension builds until scantly suppressed violence ripples around the ring. I sense him near the center of it, his scent much bolder this time. Once again, I shiver beneath my cloak despite the heat from all the bodies and the footlight flames trapped up here.
Gabe blows a brassy flourish on his horn. My cue. I step to the edge of the platform and drop my cloak, which flutters to the ground. Someone uncovers the burning quicklime in the lantern, haloing me in a pool of light. As all eyes in the crowd ascend, Gabe darts across the ring to snatch up my cloak. He will be waiting with it by the back vestibule when I finish.
I stand on my toes at the edge of the platform. A hush falls. I feel their eyes tracing out the edges of my costume and roaming across my skin. My chill turns to excitement.
Slowly, I lean forward like a denuded Norwegian spruce long hammered beneath the axman’s blows until there is nothing left below me but empty air. I plummet like a javelin, or a falcon stooped upon its prey.
My loose hair whips behind me. The silk of my skirt plasters itself against my bare legs. The lantern follows as if its light is tied to me by a cord. An instant before I crash to earth, I spread my wings and soar around the ring. I swoop and dive, bank and glide. For a few brief moments, I am free again. Redeemed.
I know my freedom will be short-lived. The gas to feed the limelight is expensive, the mechanism finicky at best. Always make them walk away hungry, Franque says. Like a succulent meal, it’s best to leave them wanting just a little more.
On my second pass, their eyes are still all locked upon me. Above the reek of mud and gin, I smell envy tinged with lust. Their minds tell them that it’s well disguised wirework, but every one of them wants to believe what he sees. They all harbor secret dreams of flight.
I feel his eyes again as I ascend to make a final pass. The ring is small. The turns are tight. This time, I cannot get escape his gaze. Then, as I circle the central tent pole, everything goes wrong.
The limelight suddenly snuffs out, plunging the tent back into semidarkness. Curses rise above angry voices. As silent as a barn owl on the wing, I glide above the fray. The riggers push back the drunken crowd with the persuasion of Irish oak. Undaunted, the men of the moor surge forward. Satan charges in from the back vestibule, disappearing into the melee, a dog possessed. Deep within, I hear a yelp followed by a long, low whine. Outnumbered, the riggers fall back. Someone kicks a footlight. Fire spills along one side the ring.
I alight on the ground in the rear vestibule. Folding my wings, I pluck up my cloak from where Gabe dropped it. I throw it across my shoulders and hurry out. No escort awaits me. Inside, Franque’s pistol barks above the angry mob in a futile effort to command silence. They do not heed. Like Goliath or Pharaoh spurred by Franque’s whip, I sprint headlong across the camp toward the safety of my cage, heedless of the puddles. Cold mud splashes up my skirt and runs down my legs. By the time I reach the wagon, my cloak is sodden and caked with it.
I fly up the steps, slamming the door behind me once I’m safely inside. I fall back against it, relieved. Then, I see his blade shining in the moonlight. I know he will use it. He has before. I can see the mark upon him now. He is the ruler of his own domain.
“I’ll scream.” I lie. He’s been chosen and there is nothing I can do.
He shakes his head. “No one to hear, love. They’ll all be busy quite some time.” He steps closer, the naked steel hanging loose in his hand. He is a nasty looking piece of work, brutish and short. For this, we were cast aside.
“Satan follows everywhere I go. Any minute, he’ll bound through this door.” I fumble with the latch behind my back.
“That mutt won’t be coming round any time soon.” He laughs, close enough that I can smell his breath. Gin and rancid turnips. A red sheen slickens his knife in the moonlight. “How bout you quit playing hard to get and shuck off that cloak? May as well we get to know each other.”
I do as he commands, knowing the pain the knife will bring. I am no longer immune to it. Or worse.
“Now, twirl round. Slowly. I want to see if they are real.”
I shiver as I turn to face the door. His blade is sharp. At first, I miss the sting of it, but when it comes I cry out, no longer a soldier.
He hums approvingly as blood from my second shoulder trickles down my back. “I’ve done a lot of pretties in my time but never quite an angel.”
“You don’t need the knife,” I whisper. “I’ll give you what you want.”
“Willingly?” The stink of his breath caresses my ear even as his knife presses against my back.
“Willingly,” I say. “Tell me your desires. I’ll make your dreams come true.”
“My dreams are evil,” he says. “The priest of St. Michael’s told me so just before he tossed me out. ‘Yours is the temptation of Lucifer,’ he said. ‘You dream of a dance with the Devil, Kayne, not the messengers of God. Our Lord has deemed that no mortal man can fly.’”
A little sigh escapes me. I will live through this encounter. I know it. Small men have small dreams.
“Is that your only dream?” I ask with the bitter taste of hope, “To fly?”
“To fly,” he repeats, his voice suddenly distant like a child’s.
“While?” I ask, my voice quavering, anticipating his answer.
“While,” he confirms, a man again as his callused hand turns me by a shoulder to face him.
Button by button, he liberates my vest with tiny little flicks of his knife. I admire him in a way. He is strong and arrogant, like my scattered band of brothers. He takes what he wants, what he knows should be his by right not bestowed by providential favor. In that, he is truly no one’s servant. But that I am the object of his freewill, I feel a twinge of envy. Then he nicks me just for fun. This time will be hard.
My mind escapes by listening to Pharaoh growl and pace out the corners of his cage. He is nervous and hungry. I wish I could calm him by stroking his tangled mane but I cannot. There was a time I could have lain down in the cage beside him, curled up and gone to sleep unharmed. Those days are long to the west of here and guarded by flaming swords.
My mind returns as we step outside. The camp is eerily quiet. A scent of dead smoke hangs in the moist night air. In the distance, a dog howls, in loneliness or in pain, I cannot tell. I wonder if it’s Satan and whether he keens for me.
Kayne prods me with the knife. I clamber onto him. I try not to think about what comes next, just the purity of flight. I am not afraid. My virtue is no longer intact. I have trouble remembering when it ever was.
For a small man, he is heavy. It’s a miracle we get off the ground. Beat by beat, we climb the night. The air grows colder as we ascend toward the stars but remains clear. On opposite horizons, the lights of Hull and York twinkle like celestial realms wracked by malicious laughter. I tingle with a freedom that the enclosure of the riding ring could never offer.
Then the tip of his knife pricks my shoulders with a series of tiny kisses. His teeth lightly bruise my neck like a biting butterfly. We strive against each other like Roman wrestlers, or enemy soldiers struggling to control a loose bayonet. Soon we are sheened in sweat. Twice, I nearly lose my grip. I reach for him afraid he will escape my grasp. At last, I lock my ankles just to maintain my hold.
He pants like Satan in the dog days of summer, whether from exertion or excitement I do not know. Suddenly, he clings to me like a dying man. I clutch him like one of my wounded brethren in the war. For an instant, we hang in midair, united, one mind, one body, one incandescent soul. In the limelight of the moon, my ancient sins are briefly washed away.
And then my redemption betrays me just as I did it so long ago for a whispered promise of liberty and false equality. My reality comes crashing down in wave after wave of unwanted pleasure as our spiritual fraternity burns itself away.
Finished, he slumps within my arms. I am tempted to release him, to let gravity guide him back to earth. Up here, I can almost smell the Channel. The estuary would not be far. Just another lost soul cast up by the sea.
But I don’t. My penance would be a dozen more just like him only spiteful. And I could never condemn another creature to that slow, tumbling, terrifying fate. That dream still drenches me at night.
Instead, I return him to the desolation of the moor. My approach scatters a congregation of rock doves from their nightly roosts. Their shadows ascend toward heaven like crows to a fresh-laid battlefield. On the ground, an ancient church stares down at me, empty eyed and ruinous, like the decisions I once made.
Gently, I lay him in the shelter of its shadow like a castoff orphan, his knife clutched across his chest like the treasure of a pagan king. For a moment, I watch him sleep, exhausted yet so peaceful, a child in the cradle of its grave. I pity these poor creatures and their solitary lives. I wonder what dreams might come to him this night, what tales he will tell of them tomorrow.
Clutching the tatters of my garments, I take back to the air seeking salt to bathe my wounds. As the cold sea numbs my pain and washes his scent away, I remind myself that this is the price for our rebellion. My eternal act of contrition for participating in the war.
Across the long, dark water, I am driven eastward, always eastward. The Black Forest, the Carpathians, perhaps the frozen city of St. Peter. By moonlight, I circle, searching the countryside for another striped tent, another torchlit sanctuary where I can begin again. Another earthly prison where I’ll once again be damned to serve as the redeemer of someone else’s dreams.
© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III
