In Memorandum

Word spreads, as word does, throughout the circus that a new tent has appeared, and each member of the circus is eager to step inside the tent with no name, though they quickly discover what it is for.

Inside the tent it is night, the starry black ceiling and walls echoing the sky outside. It begins with a hallway lined with trellises, and on the trellises are networks of vines and roses, blossoms ranging from white to pink to deep crimson, that leave blankets of petals on the floor, their scent permeating the air when they are crushed underfoot.

The passage of roses, too thickly intertwined to see through, leads to an open space, circular with the same dark walls. But from the ceiling hangs a pair of great white wings, feathery and snow-bright as an angel’s, spanning the entire diameter of the room. Occasionally the wings will move, as though with a sudden breeze, and feathers drift down onto the ground of shimmering white grass.

A fountain occupies the centre of the tent, bubbling softly with crystalline water, cascading over white statues of doves and flowers. On the very top of the fountain is a black top hat, shining and dour against the white of the wings suspended above it. The water is cool and crisp, something refreshing and numbing. The only sounds come from the rustle of grass as patrons walk through, pausing at bowers of red roses, and the trickle of the fountain. There is something melancholy about the silence and most patrons prefer not to stay long. They year for something fantastical to relieve them of the sorrow in the air. But some pause to read the silver plaque that rests on the brim of the hat, small enough it does not need to curve to fit around the hat. It reads IN MEMORANDUM and specifies a name that no one recognizes, though if they saw the face to which the name was put, they would realize why there is a new illusionist in the circus. There are two dates, and many patrons remark that the poor girl, whoever she was, was too young to pass.

Patrons insist on staying, to pay their respects to a friend of the circus, some anonymous spirit that may have at some point stood in her very own tent or sat in her own caravan. They leave soon after, even those who find the tent calming, the fountain serene and roses spellbinding.

The tent remains nameless, and no patron makes any attempt to change this. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay