Crossroads

Crossroads

A Fork in the Road

An In Between

More Trustworthy Than the Flip of a Coin

The addendum, hanging below it as though it is a new addition, reads Please enter alone, for a solitary experience.

One enters, full of excitement and unease. Patrons have explored many tents alone, yet this is the first tent many have encountered in which isolation is requested. New tents are not milestones in the circus, they appear quite often. It is another corner of the circus to memorize, though there will never be a want for corners, and memorizing all of them seems an impossible feat.

The black velvet curtain is pushed aside, revealing the mist beyond. 

Inside the tent the walls are obscured by shadow. A long path stretches ahead of him, dissapearing in the distane. The path is lined with flat black stones, like many panes of inky glass, obscured slightly by swaths of delicate mist. The mist curls around the trunks of the trees, a damp blanket over the entirety of the tent’s floor.

Patrons follow the path, until the door of the tent is no longer visible, as though the canvas walls have become a tunnel. When one has been walking for a considerable amount of time, long enough for their palms to become sweaty in his coat pockets and for the mist to dampen their hair and collars, there is a break in the mist, some protrusion in the silver haze. 

The air holds a sense of foreboding, anticipation that makes many patrons’ skin tingle. The space is taut with mystery, some in-between place, feeling sacred. The path splits at a large tree, unlike any other in this dark forest. It is so pale it seems to glow silvery blue, like some celestial creation, though its branches are bare it feels alive, like some breathing thing. The paths spiral away into shadows and light, one becoming black as the night outside, the other starry with white lanterns. There are no signs to indicate where they may lead, no postage or maps or directions.

Over each path are ornate arches, formed in grey stone. Carved into the centre of each stone is a face, the face of a man surrounded by leaves that seem as much a part of him as wrinkles and beard. The faces seem almost identical, but after a moment of study there are visible differences. Where the path drifts into a sea of white lanterns, the face is softer, more rounded, yet more alive. The eyes are wider, berries hide among the leaves framing the Green Man’s face. Atop a sea of shadows beyond, the face has sharper features, more angular, and creeping in among the Green Man’s leaves are tendrils of thorns, and small flowers like snowdrops. 

The result of one's decision, to turn left or right, is a mystery. Many come out with strangely passive expressions, their journeys an enigma as they seem not to have anything to say. Patrons entering the tent for the first time (which is also the last time, as many cannot find the Crossroads again, no matter how long they search) turn to their companions for guidance, but their companions shake their head. It is impossible to tell if each experiences something different, or if the transition beyond the curtain is a singular experience, a dream made for them, and only them. 

Art by Guillermo del Toro

Text by Lucie MacAulay