An Invitation to the Circus

Today Hansen has traveled from Denmark to Prague. It is an unusually far distance for him, even to follow the circus, but he is attending the cirque tonight by special invitation. He received the letter among his regular business postage a short while ago, requesting his presence at the next location of the nomadic cirque, though he was given advanced enough notice to secure a rented room in the outskirts of the city.

The envelope in which the letter arrives also holds a ticket for one admission to the circus.

Hansen arrives slightly earlier than most patrons, but he takes his time to wander around the fence, unable to see anything beyond the backs of tents and the occasional winding pathway between tents. When he return to the front of the line, just outside of the gates, there are already a dozen or so people lined up, and more are arriving as the seconds tick by.

Hansen presents his ticket at the booth, and then moves past it and into the circus. He wonders what he is meant to be waiting for.

He pauses by the Moon Mirror, amongst crowds still plotting their path for evening, and vendors holding trays or soliciting from booths, waiting in the increasing darkness for something, though he is not sure what, to happen. When nothing occurs he decides to wander through the circus, hoping he will come across the significant cause or a familiar face, the reason for his invitation and attendance.

He enters a tent housing raised platforms on which various fire artists perform with bright flame. Fire breathers whose mouths erupt with birds, dragons, serpents who spit and scatter sparks. The flames change colour too, flickering between a prism of twilight blues, pitch blacks and smoky snow whites. A woman in a billowing grey gown holds fire in her bare hands, a zoo of flaming creatures prowling in her fingertips. A gryphon with the star white head of an eagle takes off, his wings morphing into that of a pegasus that prances until it's wings are gone, replaced with a horn of silver erupting from it's forehead.

Another man holds the fire on a stick, twirling it until it is a wheel of fire above his head, beneath his feet, spinning around the many dancers holding flaming hoops. They leap between the hoops, toss them in the air and grab them at the end of the arc of flames left brightening the air.

They smile at Hansen as he watches, distracting him momentarily before him realizes the sparks coming from each hoop, each pole and from the tales and tongues of each animal, hang in the air around him, like miniature flaming stars, before sizzling into nothing.

In the minutes Hansen spends watching the fire artists, he notices the flames are in perfect time with a subtle melody.

The song is barely noticeable, like a sound one grows accustomed to hearing simply by hearing it often enough. There is something entrancing about the melody, something Hansen cannot place. The music is familiar, some shard of daydream or fairy tale. It is peaceful and serene, with a thrill of exhilaration.

Suddenly it strikes him, and he recognizes it as his own. Songs composed in amplified music boxes that are, as Mr.Tamas had indicated, concealed. Hansen attempts to locate the box in the tent, in any sight plain or otherwise, but cannot, and he cannot pinpoint from where it is playing.

The time is in perfect harmony with the dancing of the flames. He feels proud, and profoundly honoured, to have contributed to the circus in some way, even if it was unknowingly.

He lingers a few minutes longer, paying a considerable amount of attention to the music, listening for skips in the song, or the scratch of metal that indicates the wear of weather and the elements, and the need for strong polish, but he hears nothing.

Almost each tent Hansen visits is accompanied by recognizable music, though in none can he find any of the music boxes he remembers constructing.

Hansen leaves with a sense of deep satisfaction; delighted at the use of his music boxes and that he is able to hear his creations even after parting with them. He stumbles into bed in the early morning, dreaming of lullabies and silver flame.

Art by Seth Fitts 

Text by Lucie MacAulay