by Miracle
I wake to a bright sun. The tents are already packed. I am curled up beside the Marvels’ fire, blinking as a worker kicks sand over the embers. I sit, reaching up to feel the dusty print of a rock on my cheek. I rub it away. There is no breeze today, the air is flat and dry.
The tables are full of food, and the first people are hastily working through the line. Normally they are luxuriously lazy, but Mr. Cutts believes in punctuality more than they believe in their airs. Eventually, I am able to eat half a strip of bacon and a small, bony potato that reminds me of a fist.
“Time to move out, ladies and gentleman!” the Ringmaster shouts from somewhere near the wagons. Immediately, bags and papers are gathered, and almost everyone disappears into the caravan. The animals were packed up before breakfast, so even the trainers and handlers are ready to leave. Only the kitchen crew is left with work, but they have many diligent hands and will finish quickly.
I crawl into the freak box and sit in the corner, my back pressed up against the wood, licking the last bits of potato from my teeth. Mia is there, her face angled defiantly toward the sky, ignoring the gibes of past friends as they walk by. She does not look at me.
The Smallest Man in the World is smiling drowsily. I notice that he is wearing both boots today. The Last Giant is still sleeping off a hangover. When he awakens, he will break open the hollow bench he is sitting on, where he keeps his drink. The Conjoined Twins are talking quietly to each other, craning to see each other’s faces around their shared neck. The One Eyed Man rocks back and forth, nodding his head again and again like a broken doll.
I listen to the hum of conversation from the other wagons, the knock of wooden dishes being loaded into barrels, the abrupt trumpet of an elephant. A man laughs and a woman laughs back. The thumps of the kitchen tent being tied down and packed follows the same beat as the creak of feet stepping into other wagons.
Mia turns to look at the backs of lost friends walking to the head of the line, knowing she should be among them. I catch a glimpse of her eyes, the eyes I do not trust. There are tears in them, a sharp glint. I expect to see bitterness there, too, but there is only regret, like she knows that she would be doing the same thing to them if they were sitting where she was.
Then she straightens, blinking, and for a moment meets my gaze. We stare at each other, hesitant. Then I drop my eyes to the floor and scuff the brown stain near my foot with the toe of my shoe.
The wagons begin to move. Today we have no audience but the trees, but tomorrow the circus will be arriving with the sun at an empty field, ready to transform the plain grass floor into a wonderland.
I close my eyes.
The circus follows Mr. Cutts’ wagon. The animals murmur and scratch themselves, restless but used to long days of travel. People talk as they pass drink and play hands of cards, coins jingling as they move from pocket to pocket. I fall asleep, wake, then sleep again.
When night falls, the circus does not stop. The moon feels almost as hot as the sun, and sweat begins to dampen my skin. The rattle and shudder of the wagon jerks me in and out of sleep.
The morning dawns red. When the color melts away from the sky, I see how drained everything is. The grass is white blond, the prickly scrub is gray, and the sun is so pale that it bleaches the sky until it is barely blue.
Heat has wrung all the water from my body. I reach for a water skin, but a Conjoined Twin knocks my hand away and brings it up to his own mouth. I return to my corner, the back of my hand stinging, but Mia leans over and rips the skin away from the Twin, making water spurt from his mouth. She passes it to me and erects herself primly, staring at the ground outside the wagon.
The skin sloshes in my hands. I lift it toward my hungry lips, then pause. I watch Mia. I want to say something, but she does not look my way, so I drink until my mouth is fresh. Then I look at the water skin, old leather sagging tiredly, my fingers following the spidery cracks. It is hot with sun, but the water inside is almost cool.
Some of the Marvels are drinking out of other skins, but the Conjoined Twin who took the water skin from me has none. He still looks thirsty, and it is so hot.
I look at Mia again, then crawl closer to the Twin, reach out, and slide the water into his hand. Mia snaps her head toward us, looking angry. The Twin stares at me, not drinking. Then he turns away and swigs deep.
Tambourine. What a beautiful name. Jo’s voice suddenly fills my head, then slips away too fast for me to keep it.
I move back into my corner and put my chin on my knees.
It smells like dying things here, the trees drying out into skinny bones with horns for branches and the earth crumbling into bleached sand and gray stone. Everything glitters with silky mirages and searing light. The sun moves closer to the earth in this place.
Night falls again. I sleep. When I wake, I know where we are.
I know it only from the stories I overhear from the workers at night, but I know what they call it: Rat Valley. The circus has only crossed it once, when I was barely four and there was no work for a small circus on the other side. An elephant and two workers died.
They call it Rat Valley because only rats could survive here.
I can feel the heat cracking my skin like it has cracked the ground and my breath evaporates before it leaves my mouth. I do not know why Mr. Cutts has lead the circus here. What I do know is that this morning no one is talking, no one is moving, and the only sounds of people are lungs opening and closing and tongues swallowing dust.
I hear hooves and paws and growls and the rubbing of fur against wood. The animals are saying what the people do not – this is a wrong place.
The wagons rattle as they break over the dead ground. I look up to the horizon, but it is as ugly as the trees.
“Where are we going?” Mia whispers. “Why are we leaving?”
No one answers her, and the air is drier for the silence.
I look at her. Her face is not used to not knowing things. She is terrified that her questions have lost the people to answer them.
I don’t know, I reply in my head. It does not loosen the air.
The One Eyed Man stops rocking and watches me. I do not move, just stare at the ground outside the wagon where the sun fills up the air. People begin to murmur to each other, asking all the same questions. A spotted lizard with an open mouth drags her stomach over the cutting dirt, sizzling.
“Millie,” says the One Eyed Man, still looking at me.
I shut my eyes, but there are no safe thoughts waiting for me in my dark, so I open them again.
A huge beast plunges over the freak box and hooks dark talons around a horned tree, curving wings around his body like a feathered black coat. He looks back over his shoulder, his plucked strawberry neck and head bristling with balding hair. I stiffen when I realize he is smiling at me.
“Only rats and rat-eaters,” the Last Giant says, staring at it.
“There was a lizard,” I say abruptly. They all turn to look at me, and I press back against the wood.
The Smallest Man in the World winks. “They live on dead men’s toenails.”
I stare at him and realize he doesn’t mean it as truth. I smile, then duck my head.
The black bird raises up its heavy wings and leaps back into the sky, wheeling back toward where the circus came from. We are silent for a while, watching it go.
“Cutts must smell money on the other side,” Mia says bitterly. Again, no one answers her. It is like we are banding against her, the Marvels’ against the woman who no longer belongs in the circus. It suddenly seems ridiculous to me, that even freaks would shun someone. But I cannot think of anything to say.
I remember Jo, standing by the tree, asking me my name. I feel guilty, but I do not know why.
Even the inside of my body is too hot, like my heart is baking and my spine is a red hot pole up my back. I know that in the other wagons ladies’ fans will be fluttering frantically and the men will be sitting like wet statues beside them. Mr. Cutts will be cool in the shade of his house on wheels, with his new favorite entertaining him with pretty words and sprinkling him with cold water. Mia will know this, too.
Why is Mia here? The question is suddenly in my head and I stare at her. Why didn’t she go with the Ringmaster when he invited her back into the high crowd? Why didn’t she leave the circus when Mr. Cutts made her a freak? And what did she do to lose her status with Mr. Cutts? None of his other girls are sitting here in the freak box.
Mia feels my gaze and stares back at me. I keep looking at her because if I look away all these questions will spill out of me and I do not want that.
“Tambourine?” she asks once I have stared too long. I open my mouth, then close it. I look away and keep my lips pressed so tightly that they turn white and burn.
The huge bird is back, stretching its wings wide open and circling above us. I feel its shadow pass over me once, then twice. Again it dives down and perches on a dead tree, watching our wagons being jostled and shoved by the rocky earth.
“Are you happy, Mia?” I ask so quickly that I cannot stop it from leaving my tongue. All the muscles in my jaw stiffen as my words tumble into her ears and change her face to surprise and softness.
“I’m not unhappy,” she says finally. “Are you happy, Tambourine?”
I realize that all the freaks are watching me, waiting for my answer. The One Eyed Man, not rocking, just watching. The Smallest Man in the World with a raised eyebrow. The Last Giant, almost asleep but still listening to our conversation. Even the Conjoined Twins who never hear anyone but each other. I realize that none of us have ever had a conversation in the nine years I have been here.
For a moment I forget the question and have to replay it in my head. Are you happy, Tambourine? Only it isn’t Mia’s voice I hear.
I am sweaty. I am hungry, a little animal clawing hesitantly in my belly, knowing it has no hope to be satisfied but asking anyway. I am afraid of the crossing. I am slightly bruised from sitting here so long. But am I happy? Am I not happy?
“Thank you for the water,” I say.
Mia nods. I watch her, her dark hair curling in the heat, her face pink and bright from the sun, the stubborn dignity in her posture making her look so strong. But her eyes do not look strong. What I thought made them bony and harsh seem more like the raw edges of pain and an angry determination to stay upright. There is a caring there, too, like she is not afraid to ask questions from the people she notices. A caring like Jo’s eyes always held.
My throat squeezes shut. I curl my legs to my chest even though they heat me more and push myself into the corner until it hurts.
What did I do to make him leave me?
.
) She grinned. “Still,” he continued. “If you feel even slightly tired, we’ll stop.”
Talk