Circus Act

This is a circus full of secrets. I will tell you just a few:

1. The contortionist removes half of her bones before her act and then stitches them back inside her skin each night.
2. The distinct pink of our cotton candy is spun by spiders that steal your dreams while you lay sleeping. They scurry out into the neighboring villages and into the ears of slumbering children in each new town we visit, bringing back delectable visions and sweet fantasies.
3. The lions have tasted manflesh.
4. The bearded lady shaves her legs. She loves the contrast of her silky-smooth thighs and her scruffy cheeks. She uses a straight-edged razor and gardenia-scented soap to do it, splayed gracefully in the bath three times weekly. She scents her beard with gardenia too.
5. When we pop open the great orange-and-yellow striped tents, the chandeliers are already hanging, glowing merrily with two dozen candles apiece. We do not bother to extinguish the flames when we fold them back up.
6. We really do have an invisible man, but he’s exceedingly lazy and rarely turns up for his shift on-time. And no one notices either way.
7. The carousel animals need to be fed after the calliope is turned off and the last guest has departed. Their favorite snack is the caramel popcorn, and they love to eat it right out of the paper bag, nuzzling and whickering as they lick every last bit of salt and sugar from the rim.
8. The fortune-teller whispered to me once that she saw her own death coming in her crystal ball, but she will give no further details.
9. The route of each tour is determined by a mystical combination of ley lines, railroad schedules, and how many scarecrows adorn the fields within twelve miles.
10. Deep in the recesses of our cobwebby storage is the box that was my birthplace.

When I was very young, I was returned nightly to this wooden box, lined with straw and scraps of colorful flyers advertising our recent tour stops—now repurposed to warm my nights. As I grew, I was moved first in with the acrobats: a great cozy room of hammocks and bunk beds and foreign accents. By the age of ten, I shared quarters with The Strongest Man in the World (or at the very least, he was the strongest man featured in our circus, and promoted as such). He is a surprisingly soft-spoken and gentle fellow, with a great handlebar moustache and a passion for knitting cable-knit sweaters in his downtime. He tried to teach me, but I’m afraid all I’ve ever managed is a few very knotted scarves.

We work together in the circus, he and I. I clad in plaid knickerbockers and red suspenders and carrying a clipboard and cashbox, to take wagers from the customers as to how much he can lift. He wears sleek polka-dotted bathing trunks and a straw bowler hat and smiles charmingly, flexing his muscles while people shout out numbers and cheer him on. The crowd around us is always boisterous and crackling with energy, and there is always much whooping and clapping when he bests every bet, no matter how outrageously large. Some nights he lifts immense barbells, with swings hanging underneath each side; after all the weights have been added, four of our beautiful tightrope walkers will dance out laughing and sit and swing daintily while he lifts them all without effort. They wave and blow kisses to the audience, who follow them off to their tent to view their dazzling and dizzying displays of aerial feats on the high wire. Some nights he wields a great hammer, dropping it down to send the scale racing up, up, up. Fireworks explode as the scale clangs against the top. He twirls his moustache and laughs heartily, the hammer swung jauntily over his shoulder while we all watch the glittering bursts of the fireworks. Even though I have seen this act hundreds of times, I still applaud and cheer for him every night.

One memorable night, he took volunteers from the audience, stacking them in his arms like a tall Christmas tree of bodies, each sitting in the lap of the one below, a pile on each arm, everyone waving and reaching their arms out towards the person across from them; the crowd was wild with anticipation, and who knows how high he could have stacked them except one turned out to be the mayor’s daughter, and she was at the circus on a date without her father’s knowledge and then suddenly he showed up real mad, and Charles set them all down again in a hurry. That’s his name, The Strongest Man in the World: Charles. Only when we’re working, none of us give our names to the public ever. It takes away some of the magic of the circus, makes us risk too much and appear too real, you see.

You see, I have a wide set of wings sprouting out of my shoulder blades, each of them strangely feathered like a thousand moth wings laid like scales, colored with the barely-there grey of a cat’s whisker and the flat watercolor sky just before the first flurries of snow.

It’s all about flash and mystery, that’s what the Circus Master says. Glamorous costumes and fancy titles for each act, and lots of build-up, that’s what keeps the circus packed each night. That’s what keeps audiences cheering and chattering and coming back for more. My costume may not appear very flashy in comparison with some of the others, but I wouldn’t be able to get into it at all without Charles’ help each night. Maybe because he loves knitting so much, he enjoys the challenge of layering me down to look normal. Like a normal boy, I mean.

I haven’t told you much yet about my birth, but that’s partially because it’s a bit of a mystery. The clowns tell me that I came into being by spontaneous generation: sawdust and glitter and shadows and song and leftover cake and a dozen days of shaking travel by railcar. But no one has been able to repeat the feat, so I think maybe they are teasing me. The Circus Master guesses it has something to do with the jar of fireflies they caught on midsummer’s evening out on the high prairie under a blue moon, a night of dancing and moonshine and wild stories. Our costume designer says he might have just dreamed me into being, since my wings are softer and finer than any fabric his fingers have ever graced.

You see, I have a wide set of wings sprouting out of my shoulder blades, each of them strangely feathered like a thousand moth wings laid like scales, colored with the barely-there grey of a cat’s whisker and the flat watercolor sky just before the first flurries of snow. I can’t fly or anything, so I am not sure what they’re for, although I fold them tightly around myself at night and am always perfectly warm and snug. They close up small, hinging in so that Charles can wrap me like a mummy in muslin. Then my undershirt and white button-up goes on, and then a striped sweater vest (knit by Charles of course), and the red suspenders tamp it all down a little more, just in case. So that I look normal.

It’s funny, in a circus where we lure visitors in to see the weird and exotic, that I have to be hidden. But the Circus Master said folks like to be able to see hints of the wires and figure out the illusions for themselves, and my wings just look too otherworldly. He said I have a bit of growing up to do first, and to work on my acting skills, and then maybe we can fool people into believing that they’re being fooled. There’s a lot of that in our circus: things more real than the audience realizes.

Today is my thirteenth birthday, and we celebrate in the middle of the night after the circus has closed for the evening, all of us gathered in the biggest tent like we do for everybody’s birthday. There is a vanilla cake decorated with stiffly whipped peaks of cotton candy that I know contain delicious dreams, and the Circus Master and the costume designer (who also works as The Lion Tamer) present me with an enormous box. Inside is a funny cap with softly furred antennae, long leather gloves, and a tank top sewn with gaudy feathers and sequins. I am always grateful for gifts, so I smile up at them both, but the Circus Master laughs right away and I can see he isn’t fooled and knows I am not so sure about this present.

“It’s your new costume,” he says, pointing to the box. “So that you can fool them.”

The costume designer leans in and winks. “I know that you know that I can work wonders and make gorgeous outfits, but your wings are already so beautiful that we needed to make them look a bit more ordinary.”

I lift the garments out and inspect them. I do see now what they mean, and also, how these will fit with my wings. I whisper my thanks, and everyone applauds and clamors for more cake. I help slice up seconds, but my nerves are too jumpy for more. When Charles and I head back to our tent, I ask him what he thinks.

He twirls his fingers into the ends of his moustache, like he always does when he’s thinking deeply about something. “I think it’s wonderful that you will get to be more yourself, but sometimes, it’s nice to walk in disguise. Take me, for example: I am so broad and tall and muscly that I cannot walk into town without people pointing and knowing that I am The Strongest Man in the World.”

“But they don’t know that you are Charles,” I remind him.

He nods at this. “True. Yes, I keep some of myself from them. But it is hard for me to go unnoticed. You can hide your wings and pretend to be one thing, and with your wings and that fancy costume, you’ll be something else, but still you can keep your true self hidden from the crowds unless you want to show it.”

I think I understand. “The illusion of you is hung on the body you have to wear all the time.”

He claps my back with his great hand. “That’s right, my boy! You do understand. Having folks that respect you for your true self is important, and just as important is deciding which folks get to see it.”

We continue walking in silence, and I feel the cool breeze sliding between my feathers. I stretch my wings wide, letting them drink in the starlight and feel the air on every surface. I wonder what it will be like to walk in public with them unfurled like this. What it will be like to play a part and convince others that I am just pretending. I remember the Circus Master telling me once that the greatest acts should be sincere and leave so little room for doubt that the audience cannot help but go looking for it, and then applaud us when they cannot find the illusion that they believe must be there.

But for a while I keep working with Charles, while I figure out what my act should be. During the day, I wander around and observe rehearsals for the other performers, to see where it is that I could fit in. The Circus Master sends me up the scaffolding to the high wire, where I realize how terrifying the ground seems to be from so far away. I get dizzy just looking down at it. They hook me to the safety lines and send me wobbling out with my wings wide. And I fall promptly off, swinging like a fool from the rope, all the tiny feathers on my wings rustling in agitation. Again and again, I try, and again and again I fall, until everybody agrees this is not the act for me and my wings definitely are not the flying variety.

Then everyone thinks maybe these wings will lend grace and coordination, and perhaps I’ll be a good juggler, but I drop everything that is thrown to me and even almost catch the tent on fire when I accidentally toss a ball into the lit chandelier. We have to close it up real quick and pop it back open to put it right.

The costume designer, who is also The Lion Tamer, invites me to rehearse with him, but I see the way his lions track me with their eyes and lick their chops like I am an awkward bird to be hunted. I decide right away that this is not the place for me. Plus, I know the secret about those lions and think maybe with the wings it just might be too tempting for them.

The clowns offer to work me into their act, and we rehearse a series of pratfalls with them being knocked down repeatedly by my wings and then me running around the tent cawing, but the Circus Master says no, this is not the place for you. Such wings as yours are not meant to be mocked.

The invisible man offers to provide the illusion of flight; I climb on a wheeled box and spread my wings, and he pushes me around and around. It feels anticlimactic and is also boring for me, and he starts complaining about his bad back before we make it two rounds anyways.

The Circus Master suggests a shared act with the contortionist, and after she takes out some of her bones, she tries to get me to move my wings in strange ways. She offers to teach me the ancient art of bone-knitting and wonders if we could remove some of the architecture of my wings each night and I say no thank you. I prefer to remain whole and exactly who I am.

Finally, we decide that I should debut as part of the opening master of ceremonies address that the Circus Master gives nightly to welcome audiences. This is always held one minute after sunset, when the first star winks into being and the magic of the circus begins to take hold. I put on my costume with trepidation, wondering what the audience will make of me.

“And now,” the Circus Master says, opening his arms grandly as I walk out of the shadows and into the audience’s view, “may I present, for the first time ever, The Boy Who Wears a Million Moth Wings as His Own!” (I am not so sure about this title, but the Circus Master says we have to start somewhere.)

The gathered crowd oohs and aahs, and I hear the murmurs of many conversations as I walk a wide circle with my wings out, my antennae-adorned cap slightly askew and my heart racing. I try to smile at the crowd.

“Fly for us, boy!” I hear someone shout from the back, and many people cheer at this.

“How high up can you go?” asks another voice in the crowd, urging me to float up to the chandelier and bring down a lit candle.

“Don’t moths always fly towards flames? Up you go then, boy,” cries someone in the front row.

The gathered crowd oohs and aahs, and I hear the murmurs of many conversations as I walk a wide circle with my wings out, my antennae-adorned cap slightly askew and my heart racing.

I look at the Circus Master, my eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. He hesitates only a moment before replying, “Now then! Surely, we wouldn’t want to extinguish this beautiful moth on his first night! There’ll be no flying towards flames here! Instead, think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your friends: a hundred more wonders just as wild as this one await you within, so without further ado, the circus is open for the evening!”

He begins applauding and the crowd catches on, joining in and the uncomfortable moment passes. They all stream out of their seats and into the night, many of them coming close to peer at me as they pass, and a few running their hands over my wings, which I do not like. When the tent is empty and quiet again, he looks at me. Neither of us says anything but I am certain we are both thinking the same thing. I run back to my tent where Charles is waiting to help me change into my normal costume.

“How did it go?” he asks, as he carefully tucks my wings into the wrapped fabric. “Did they cheer for you?”

I think for a moment. “Not really.” I say. “They cheered a lot for their own idea of what I might be, but it’s not who I am.”

Charles twirls his moustache slowly but doesn’t say anything. That night and the next few to follow, I work as hard as usual in my assistant role, and no one notices that they have already seen me earlier in the evening. After a week of the opening act, the Circus Master requests that I meet him for a morning walk. We stride out onto the country road that wends its way out of the grove where we have made camp for this tour stop. He asks me what I am thinking. I look out at the patchwork scarecrow grinning at us from the neighboring cornfield for a few seconds before I reply.

“Sir,” I say, “I’m grateful for this opportunity to open the show, but it doesn’t feel right. I’ve been thinking about it, and I would like to continue to be The Assistant for the Strongest Man in the World, if it’s alright with you.”

The Circus Master looks down at me. I can tell he’s not really surprised, but he wants me to explain a bit further. He sighs and says, “I don’t want you to have to pretend to be something you aren’t, but it also isn’t fair that we keep hiding part of you away. Those beautiful wings deserve to be spread more often.”

I beam at this and squint up at the sun so that the Circus Master thinks that maybe I have a tear in my eye because it’s so bright (even though I know deep down he knows that’s not the reason). “I was thinking that maybe I am most myself when I am Charles’ assistant, only maybe my costume should be different. You see, I realized that my wings are just part of who I am, like Charles’ moustache or the birthmark that the fortune teller has, they’re just part of me.”

He smiles at this, a warm smile that crinkles up from his dimples to the corners of his eyes. “I see—your wings are like green eyes or curly hair or size 13 shoes—nothing that needs to be justified or forgiven or allowed. Just part of you.”

I nod solemnly. “Yes, and I am Charles’ friend and part of the circus family, and The Assistant to the Strongest Man in the World, and I just happen to have wings.”

And so, we continue walking and talking and planning as the sun rises towards noon.

And it takes a week or so, but soon we are ready for our new act, Charles and I. I clad in a loosely woven tunic that is a bit of cat’s-whisker-grey and a bit of the silver of moon shadow, with openings in the back that allow my wings to unfurl. I wear pale grey knickerbockers and carry my clipboard, and I still take down all the numbers that the audience guesses. Charles wears sleek trunks of steel grey and silvery stars, and a loosely woven tank top that still shows all his muscles but matches my top. He knit them both, of course. All his barbells and hammers and scales and weights have been painted with silver stars too. And now, instead of the dancing girls in swings beneath his barbells, once all the weights are attached and the audience is already gasping at his strength, then he squats down and I leap nimbly up to his shoulders and perch on the barbell, spreading my wings wide. He stands and lifts the barbells high overhead and I reach up for the sky and suddenly there are a hundred fireflies flittering around me and I catch a few in my palm. When he sets me back down they have transformed into tiny glittering stars in my hand, and I toss them to the children in the crowd, telling them they are full of magic and born of the night sky. And of course, they are, but no one truly believes, they just joyfully applaud us for the illusion and continue on through the circus. And Charles and I go off to buy caramel popcorn to feed the carousel animals later.

End.