One-Man Circus (Chapter 1)

I remember the morning as if it were today’s. Lovely weather, despite a gentle wind, which rustled the tent within which I was imprisoned. I say imprisoned, not because it was a place I was forced to attend, but rather for the state of it and my own state of mind. The big top was simply bursting with people and chatter. I found myself immobilized, pressed on all sides by other patrons (who clearly did not have as inflicting a case of claustrophobia as I). They were unfazed by the tight quarters and the relentless bumping and shuffling of others as they made their way to their seats. I had already settled down in my assigned area, a most comfortable arrangement that left me completely in discomfort. I shuffled around and resituated my suit jacket, but still felt out of place. I pulled the brim of my hat down low, casting a shadow over my face and shielding my eyes from the bright stage lights. I did not share in the encompassing crowd’s jolly excitement. Rather, I could not remove the impatient frown from my lips. I immediately regretted my decision to come. I had never been a fan of the circus, nor had I been a regular attendee. In fact, I had only ever been to one other circus in all of my years--as a young boy. Yet the impression it left on my youthful past escapes me, and the memory is as faded as an old photograph. I never bothered attending one in my later years, as I had always considered it a waste of time and money. Nevertheless, there I sat, embarrassed and bored, waiting for the show to commence. Part of my self-consciousness flourished from an unreasonable feeling of guilt. You see, I never actually paid for a ticket to the circus (though I could argue that I have justly done so now, having played my part in the events that would later transpire). Do not think bad of me, for I am not the crafty type, and I would never have considered such an action as sneaking into the show without proper payment (especially that of some strange circus act). As I was saying, I felt shame burn my cheeks as I dawdled there, wishing to be anywhere else, when people further back would have died for my seat. My favourable position was almost within the ring itself, and while it would be seen as a lucky opportunity to any other man, I could feel no appreciation for my privileged placement. Attending the travelling circus during its time in my home city would never have crossed my mind, if it had not been for that night the day before. Even now, I can recall it so vividly in my mind. It was one of those moments so unusual that it engraved itself upon my memory, even before I was aware of its future importance. So too were the events that followed, which have themselves been captured and replayed countless times in my thoughts, and have been stirred once more in the starting of this narrative which I have decided to share with you.

But in order for us to continue, I should first travel back to where it all began. I was walking briskly along the path lining the faces of the city’s abodes. The night was chill and dark, a fog encasing all in an obscuring mist. A man could hardly make out his own hand, waved in front of his eyes, and I could not obtain a ride home. As I went on my way, I felt the silence and emptiness of the streets weigh heavy upon me. It was definitely one of those nights you would not wish to find yourself alone or in the dark, and I was unfortunate enough to encounter both. I was so comforted by the light of a lantern and the silhouette of another person within it, that I did not go out of my way, as is usual for me, to avoid crossing the stranger’s path. I continued to stroll past, and I did not ignore their request for my assistance. Blinking through the strained yellow light, I could now make out the stooped figure before me, her small, wrinkled face illuminated by her own lantern. She seemed at first impression to be a doddery old lady, with senile green eyes and bags beneath them that spoke of many years. Yet a few of her attributes seemed almost to contradict this. Despite her clear age, her curled hair remained jet black. The glassy pupils that bore into me left an unsettling feeling, but a gentleman always offers his assistance to a lady in need, and she was clearly in some small bind. As I stopped before her and asked what her trouble might be, she held up the burlap sack she was gripping in her knobby, shaking fingers. There was truly no need for her to explain, for the large seam in the sack’s bottom and the scattered shapes of miscellaneous objects on the ground outlined her plight clearly. She asked me in a hoarse voice if I could help her gather her possessions before she lost them in the fog. I wondered how she might carry her burden with the loss of her bag. However, my concern was quickly dispersed as she plucked a needle and some thread from a hidden pocket in her faded, yet tawdry rags. While she began to sew the seam shut, I set to my own task, groping around blindly for what I believed were once the contents of her sack. After retrieving a large glass ball (miraculously unshattered) and a bizarre package of playing cards embellished with runes, I was able to deduce her occupation. I was more cautious as I plucked up the remainder of the gypsy’s belongings, fearing I might clasp my hand upon a horrid dried head or other oddity. When I had finished, and her curios were once again collected, she threw the sack upon her shoulder and once again fixed her perturbing pupils upon me. I gave her a courteous smile as our eyes met, but silently cursed myself for winding up in such an awkward situation. She did not immediately send me off, so I thought it best to personally commence our parting. There was something truly off putting about the old lady, and I felt more alone and threatened in her company than not. With a tentative word and a doff of my hat, I began to creep away, but I was soon pulled back into her green gaze. A hand, withered and nimble as a tree branch yet with the grip of a bear trap, lighted down on my shoulder with a startling speed. As I turned, I tried to mask the fright that had passed over my face. My heartbeat returned to its normal pace when her voice remained a friendly, innocent croon, and a word of thanks peeled from her cracked lips. She insisted that she show her gratitude, despite my insistence that I needed no such recompense. I did not want whatever magic spell or voodoo trinket the old hag might bestow me. However, she clasped my hand in hers, and I felt a slip of paper force its way into my palm. As I curled my fingers around it, she explained with excitement. She spoke with conviction and enthusiasm, like one trying to draw an audience to their show, of an amazing circus travelling through the area. Elaborating on its illustriousness, she urged me to attend during its short visit. She ended her pitch by inviting me to visit her at her booth. For a small price, I could be read my fortune. To me, the only fortunate thing about this whole ordeal was that she looked content. I stowed the ticket and managed to move on my way, relieved as her glowing light reduced itself to a pinpoint far behind me.

When I arrived home, I realized my mind had not yet left the gypsy, despite the distance I had put between us. I had no intention of attending the circus, nor learning of my future from some senile woman. Yet like the haze outside, my better judgement was clouded by an odd occurrence. As soon as I stepped inside, I stole the ticket from my pocket (where I had hurriedly stashed it) and discarded it in the bin. I had barely taken a step, my hand thrust back into my coat in the hopes of fetching my watch, when I gave a jolt. Along with the ticking clock, my fingertips grazed a slip of paper. As I pulled yet another ticket from my pocket, my mind began to whir. Had the gypsy snuck a second ticket into my jacket without my noticing? Afterall, it could not have appeared out of thin air. I resolved that that must have been the case, but staring down into the waste bin, holding the ticket readily above it, my eyes grew wide. The previous ticket was nowhere to be found. The one in my hand had taken its place, if it was not in truth the very same ticket. As I pulled it up to my face and studied it closer, I could draw no plausible conclusion. Perhaps it was a trick...or perhaps it was fate. Regardless, I was convinced of one thing: a day at the circus might do me good.

...

Thus I bring you back to where I left off with the beginning of this narrative. I waited in the stands, my chin resting upon my hand, glancing restlessly at my pocket watch. I felt lured into some great scam. It is true I had not spent a dime, but it was surely a swindle to steal away my time and leave me with only a faint impression of unimpressive acts. Despite my cynical thoughts and clear discomfort, I could not help but perk up with the sound of the drums. They rattled on dramatically, clueing us in on the show starting. The whole audience fell silent, the rumbling beat drowning out all other noise. The tent became exceptionally dark, and my vision narrowed until my attention was purely focused on the center ring. A spotlight flickered to life, concentrating itself on a lone figure high in the air. He stood proudly on a tall platform. A few hushed whispers and pointing fingers, then another stillness fell upon the audience. Everyone concentrated their attention on the beaming tightrope walker perched on his pedestal. I noted what I could of the man’s appearance (surprisingly clear, despite the distance). I felt a familiarity in that face, and pondered whether he might have been a member of the circus I had attended as a boy. The performer gave a final wave, as if in goodbye, and turned to the daunting task before him: a long, thin wire leading to another platform on the other side of the ring. As he took his first tentative steps, the crowd held its breath. He went slow and unsure, and at one point began to stumble. He wheeled his arms about, leaning to and fro. The circus-goers surrounding me gasped in fear, expecting him to fall. Rather shamefully, I yawned in boredom. Not only was I wasting my time at their circus, but they could not even put on a decent performance. As this thought flew through my mind, the man on the rope suddenly straightened up. He stopped fumbling around and turned to the audience with an amused smile. The crowd erupted with nervous laughter as they realized his ruse. His blundering around was all part of the act. A bluff. He proceeded to perform several stunning flips through the air, flying across the remainder of the line with the agileness and elegance of a cat. Applause burst out from all around. Even I clapped my hands, encouraging his amazing feat. The tightrope walker travelled across the line several more times, each stretch faced with a larger, more dangerous twist. This first act seemed to foreshadow all those to come. He danced across the rope as flames erupted beneath him. He parried with swords along the line, twirling to avoid their sharp blades as they were thrown up by hooded figures below. At the climax of his act, he stood in the middle of the wire. The drums started up once more, coupled with fiddles and the wind outside to set an edge-of-the-seat air. A daring move was about to be made. A lion was let loose in the ring, the other troupe members returning to the shadows behind the scenes. It growled at the audience and up to the man, precariously positioned above it. The tension was left to build. As the audience moved their eyes from the lion’s hungry face, they found the performer’s to be surprisingly free of fear. We were all transfixed by the show now. I looked at the performer as if readying myself for when I saw him again, in the obituary section of the news. What happened next surprised me more than a faulty misstep into the beast’s jaws would have. We were so focused on the performer as he began his feat, we could see his muscles tense. His knees bent, and he performed one last spectacular leap: straight off of the wire and into the lion’s path. As yellow fangs and slashing claws greeted the air where he would have fallen, the tightrope-walker suddenly switched roles. Before the tightrope, a trapeze wire for a later act had been positioned. As he dived from the rope, he managed to grip the flimsy bar and swing up over the snarling beast in the nick of time. When he landed on a further platform and raised his arms in triumph, the audience sent up an uproar of applause. I would even say it was a roar superior to that of the hungry lion, which the beast gave as an unseen animal tamer in the ring led him off.

After the audience had grown in enthusiasm, but allowed their cheers to die down, the spotlight fixed on its next patron. A figure with a strong silhouette had slowly come into view, strolling mysteriously into the ring. He had his head down, and even as he drew near, the top hat upon his brow shaded his face so as to be imperceptible. He stopped in the center, and we all left the tightrope walker, still standing upon his platform, to readjust our eyes to the brilliant beam and its host. As the gentleman stole our attention, he lifted his head, throwing light upon his face, and recognition into the eyes of the audience. A single gasp like a ruffle of the tent’s tarp echoed from the stands. We all sat, faces suddenly struck white and the shock pinning our mouths agape. The ringmaster now stood in the ring, loud and confident. He wore a coat with coattails (the inside of which was a garish red), a top hat with a matching red band, and pristine white gloves. The remainder of the ringmaster’s attire consisted of a fancy purple vest embroidered with an elaborate design and a gaudy cravat. But it was not his flashy fashion that had caught us circus-goers eyes, but his familiar face. Despite the new arrival sporting a thin, curly-edged mustache, it was most certainly the same visage worn by the fellow above him. I remember squinting my eyes, believing the lighting to play tricks on my vision. Perhaps they were relatives, or doppelgangers who chanced upon one another, or at least those were the whispered theories of the audience around me. However, all attempts at explaining this odd illusion were dashed by the ringmaster’s introduction. While my memory may not hold his speech in a photographic sense, I could paraphrase and still keep it quite accurate to its true script.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Please, relax once more in your seats, and do not fret! You may stop scolding your weary eyes. I can assure you, you are not seeing double. However, you may remain puzzled when I explain that still a single man stands before you. Yes, for there is only one man in this ring, and only one man manning this show tonight, for I warmly welcome you to the one and only One-Man Circus!” The circus patrons clapped, even though the speech only served to confuse them further. I folded my arms and leaned back in my seat, unconvinced. As the confused, but courteous, clapping died down, the showrunner continued to elaborate. “The show you are about to witness is performed by a single man…” As if to contravene this previous statement, the entire circus troupe came out and lined up behind the ringmaster. Nevertheless, the audience found truth in his words, for every member appeared to be the same person. They all shared the same gray eyes, the same dark brown hair, and the same olive skin. Most of them were also of the same size and stature. Some had notable differences that defined them, like the muscle man with his exceptional bulk, but they were all remarkably alike in appearance. They were also all men, except for the bearded woman, and even that I could not be sure of. Their similar semblance would not have been enough to convince anyone of the claim the show’s namesake made, but as the show progressed, there was not a single person left unshaken by the singular shtick. The circus troupe gathered in the ring, the scene resembling that of an image mirrored repeatedly with the ringmaster as the reflection’s host. Once they were settled and in perfect view of the stands, they all took a bow. They moved in perfect unison with one another, down to the tiniest characteristics, such as a slight curl of the fingers as they bent to the audience, and a twitch of a smile flickering across all of their faces as if they were all puppets being pulled by the same strings. The speech was suddenly, and quite stunningly continued, but with it our ears became as unbalanced as our eyes.

The ringmaster’s voice rang out once more, “As you can see, this performer and I are one and--”

“The same. In fact, I am the performer.” The ringmaster had been cut off as another stepped forward and finished his thought. Despite the crowd moving their eyes from one mouth to the next, it was surely the same voice that rang from the other’s throat, the same charismatic elocution with its soft, yet commanding tone. However, the frame from which the words echoed belonged to that of the tightrope walker. The speech was taken up once more, and my eyes fled around the ring, fruitlessly trying to find the source. While it seemed to me it must be the tightrope walker, or possibly the ringmaster, still narrating without interruption, the only mouth I could see moving below me was that of the contortionist. Despite his body being grotesquely distorted, the words rang out clear, and with the same pitch.

“Now that you mention it, I am also the contortionist,”

“And the animal tamer,”

“And the harlequin.” Each time one mouth closed, another opened to continue the script, tricking us into believing it was he who was speaking who had been speaking all along. As the next line was delivered, everyone in the stands gave a shiver.

“Indeed, I am everyone!” the sound of multiple voices sang out, yet so similar were they, that it seemed one voice echoed from within the troupe members. A wave of shock swept over the crowd and rattled the tent with the wind outside. I blinked rapidly and sat back in my chair, realizing I had been gawking wide-eyed and open-mouthed while the elaborate trick lured me into its trap. Baited with intrigue, I found even with a head full of suspicion I had been captured by the show. The ringmaster took his place once more as the head, stepping forward and raising himself up.

“Thus the One-Man Circus earns its name. ‘Tis no trick! Simply me, sharing my many talents with you all.” The man, or men, continued, bringing the crowd to laughter and tears with his charm. Meanwhile, throughout the rest of the show’s opening, I was lost not in amusement, but in thought. By the end, I had convinced myself it could not possibly be a single man pulling off this great feat. He could not be multiplied, surrounded by his troupe, yet in truth standing all alone. He could not be the tightrope walker, and the bodybuilder, and the contortionist all in one, not when each was gifted with their own talents. Below me stood men, made up to look alike. Or was it an elaborate trick, possibly using mirrors and the lights to deceive our eyes? Yes, that seemed reasonable enough. Even now, with the truth of the matter revealed to me, these early explanations seem much more contenting. My mind still turns (despite the surety of my eyes) over the credibility of all I have witnessed.

Though I had shrugged off the circus gimmick as simply that: a gimmick, the individual acts and overall show was still spectacular. The performers performed as if it was all they knew; as if they were born for the roles they played. When the final act was up, I admit that I was impressed. Not even the wind of that day could have done a better job of blowing me away. Yet when I stepped out into its cool breeze, leaving the big top behind me, I found I was in for another shock. I walked out, pushing past the other patrons, my head down and full of thought. My eyes were still wide from wonder. I could not come up with a feasible explanation for the doppelganger stunt, so I began to fall victim to it. When I finally looked up to take in my surroundings, I was given a violent start. In fact, so rattled was I that I stumbled backwards, knocking my head against a wooden stand behind me. I crumpled to the ground, the crowd swiftly passing me by, hardly held up by my obstruction. The temporary carnival ground around me was filled with circus booths and amusements. Despite the hundreds of interesting attractions calling for my attention, it was a metal cage that met my glance. I had peered first at the wooden plaque upon its base, the fine golden letters engraved upon it leaving an impression, despite the fact I had not stopped to read them. Instinctively, my eyes were drawn from caption to creature, but what I saw was far worse than I would have suspected. The towering pen was large enough to hold a grown man, and so it did. The sight of another person behind those bars was enough to disgust me. However, the sight of this man was enough to throw me from my feet. Emaciated and poorly dressed, he squatted in the corner of the cage, his thin arms curled around his knees. The description definitely fit the display, and the “Twisted Man” stole my composure and left me with a feeling of outrage. The poor fellow stared up at the group of onlookers, his gray eyes filled with pain and grief… those familiar gray eyes. Half of his face was horribly mangled, his mouth twitching in a perpetual grin, and his eyelid drawn up into an oddly curved brow. Yet my start was inflicted by more than just the mutilated part of his mug. It was the other half, untouched and untwisted, that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. The freak’s thin, prominent features; his olive skin…. They were of the ringmaster: the one man of the circus. Within the disturbing wreckage of the creature, I could see him. He who had filled every role of the show. The poor devil wore his likeness, as did all of the entertainers. No doubt they were all intended to be taken as the same person, but pity filled my heart for this abused imitation. My stomach turned. The circus’ gimmick began to feel in poor taste. A man, impounded and exhibited as some bizarre attraction, made up to look like the others, yet ironically mutilated so as to be seen as an aberration. After I became aware of my position, sprawled in the mud, I managed to draw my eyes away from the poor wretch. I refused to look at him again. As I awkwardly attempted to regain my feet, the woman running the booth on which I had knocked my head shuffled to my aid. Gladly accepting her outstretched hand, I was thrown aback for the umpteenth time that evening. The withered hand belonged to none other than the fortune teller, whom I had met the previous night. Her reward for my helping her was what brought me to this horror show in the first place. I was not in the mood for dealing with the old witch, and she must have read the look upon my face. After assisting me to my feet, she gave a simple nod and hobbled back to her booth. Not a word was uttered between us, and I was relieved. I had had enough strangeness for one day. My coat coated in mud and my nerves still shaken, I headed on my way. The circus did not have the reposing effect on my mind I thought it would. If anything, I found myself worse for the wear. I was weary and drawn as I arrived upon the landing of my building late in the night. After entering my rooms, I rested for a minute, leant against the wall. I fumbled for my watch, looking to check the time, but as my searching stopped, I felt the color leave my cheeks. I slowly withdrew my hand, something curled within its shaky grasp. As I gazed down at what certainly was not my pocket watch, my face quickly turned from pale to red, painted with outrage. Between my thumb and index finger, slightly crumpled, was a tiny slip of paper. Crimson in color, and captioned in bold black letters: “The One-Man Circus.” As I glared down at the ticket for tomorrow night’s show, my temper broke. Of course I had not received this ticket for free. It had cost me alright, and so had the last one, for my watch surely covered the price of both (and a great deal more at that). I had been scammed after all. It was settled. I would be attending the next show. If a gypsy was walking around, checking the time with MY watch, I would at least make use of the tickets I got swindled for it!