#tortuefic

Ian knew close to nothing about the circus life. He had been to one, once, as a child, and had no real memories, just bright lights, applause and candy smells. He would leave soon, maybe, after a day or two, or maybe a few more, to not impose, to keep going. He was too old to learn new tricks, too big to be an acrobat, too odd for the animals. He did not belong, but as long as the stakes were in the ground, he could stay for a bowl of warm food, for a dry straw mattress, and for the piercing eyes of the knife thrower.

He had felt them on him that first evening, around the pit fire. He had not made a gesture, of course. If he were to walk the railway again through the mist, he would rather it be on his own terms this time. They had not talked to each other, not really, but Ian could not help but smile at his jokes, nod at his arguments, and laugh at his laughs.

For a few days, Ian had helped around and earned his stay while they were telling him the way of the circus.

They would stop the train and put up the tent on a patch of dry land near the railways, and they would leave again, prisoners of their metal path. Sometimes, the place would be occupied by a fair or a private caravan. They would go on their way or engage in a negotiation. There was no calendar for the occupation of the sites, just habits and implicit hierarchies. 

They would stay one week or two, never more, a performance every evenings, and twice on Sunday. The public would come in groups, families or not, dressed in their best clothes and their best hats, in whatever fashions their society had been stuck in. 

They would paid with food, supplies, coal, or local coins that would only be worth their weight in metal at the next stop. They would attend the show, applaud, and disappear again into the fog. Sometimes, the circus gents would draw lots to know who would follow the muddy paths that lead to the village back for errands or a meeting. 

It was fine to welcome people on the ground they claim for a fortnight, but who knows what would happen in their secluded communities, what complex organization, what weird social rituals, and mixed folklores waited for them there.

When his chores were done, Ian often hung around the knife thrower tent. He would listen to the sharp instructions that he would yell through the cloud of sawdust of the circus ring at the assistant girl, the rhythmic whistles that replayed the circus quintet scores, the endless banter between him and the girl, in her full sequin scene costume or in her everyday rags, perched on a ladder or a magic box set while he sharpened his knives and reassembled the dolls he would behead in the first part of his act. 

They had noticed Ian, of course, and soon they told him to make himself useful and to spin the wheel. Ian could have been scared when Mickey put on the blindfold if Mandy had not told him how Mickey knew the telltales of the wheel: the clicks sounds indicating its speed and the whinings revealing its position. They talked too, about the circus, about their pasts, and about their expectations.

On the last day, when Ian had already made his package and gathered his supplies, Mickey told him to climb on the wheel, and it sounded like a dare.

Ian put his hands through the fake restraints, his feet too big to fit properly on the platforms. 

Mandy spun the wheel with glee. 

Mickey put his blindfold back on and threw his first blade. It hit somewhere near Ian’s leg, right at the center of a painted star. A second one stuck itself above his head, in the tiny amount of wood left by Ian‘s tallness. The third one caught Ian's sleeve, just near his wrist. Ian jerked, surprised. The next landed in the mirror, into his second sleeve, effectively pinning him on the wood. 

Mickey took off the strip of fabric from his eyes and waited for the wheel to stop its course, smiling, playing with his last weapon. Slowly, he walked up to Ian, handing him his last knife. From close up, it was not one of his usuals. The blade was sturdier, the handle was carved and painted in red.

“We could use another pair of hands around here.”

Ian looked up at his restrained arm. His sleeve tore up in a scream. The knife was even prettier in his own hand.

“What will the Ringmaster say?”

Mickey shrugged.

“My call.”

Around and under the main tent poles, they had turned on the lights, the chestnuts were already grilling, the musicians and the artists were warming up, Mickey averted his eyes, and pulled out his blades from the wood.

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