The Dance
Night has long since fallen. The city sits in the nearby distance, lights shining in a few tall buildings like stray fireflies. All the rest of the world is drawn to the fanfare, the bright lights, the addicting flame of the circus. Multicolored tents pockmark the ground like candy buttons and lollipops; the scent of cotton candy, popcorn, and funnel cakes weighs heavy in the air, causing mouths to water and minds to reminisce. Children run to and fro, shrieking with laughter or staring at performers. Slowly, steadily, like the drool of sweet-craving toddlers, the crowd slides towards the largest tent.
The Big Top towers overhead, king of the circus tents. Bright orange and green stripes slant from the tip and slide down to welcome guests; two large flaps are drawn aside like palace gates, the great performers welcoming the common man in for a visual feast. The trapeze artists, twins, stand to either side. The sister smiles warmly, ebony hair twisted back in a complicated knot, smoky blue and silver eye shadow whispering from her eyes as glitter trickles around her face. Pale pink highlights her cheekbones, bringing to light their Asian prominence. She stands tall and erect as a music box ballerina, her tight outfit – blue on the right and silver on the left, meeting in a wave down the center- sparkles with the same glitter as her face. Her brother stands to the other side, face set in a determined-yet-friendly line as he nods to the spectators and ushers them inside. His outfit matches his sister’s, but he has no sleeves. He lacks her elegance in his stance, standing sturdily, the picture of reliability; his callused hands anticipate the smoothness of his sister’s, ready to catch her the moment they are in the air. He rocks from foot to foot subtly, ready to be climbing the pole. The twins’ blue eyes sparkle with anticipation.
As the people part and clamber into the stands, impatient eyes flicker towards the center of the tent. A large ring sits in the center, with two long poles reaching towards the heavens. There is no tightrope strung between them, but the trapezes are anchored to the top by a single rope. On the ground level, a rotund man with a curled mustache and scraggly red hair guffaws cheerfully, the brim of his top-hat hiding the hardness in his eyes, the crow’s feet of scrutiny. His eyes seem to scan the crowd, but always he watches his workers, judges them.
Clowns amble about in the stands, purposefully sitting down on someone’s lap, tripping over legs, spilling popcorn, and flinging themselves over the cloth barrier into the ring. Around one of the bends, the benches are occupied by a brass band; their instruments sparkle in the spotlights, signaling the audience as the trumpets sway and catch the light, bouncing it back like a golden mirror. A peppy tune dances through the air, lilts through the crowd, and twirls around the portly Ringmaster. At the rising of his hands, silence falls. The lights dim, a single diluted spot remaining on the master of the circus. His voice echoes as if he is speaking into a megaphone, powered only by his diaphragm.
“Welcome one and all, tall and small!” he cries. “May the magic of this night keep the old young and the young in thrall! We have come to thrill and chill, delight and inspire. I give you first our Gemini, the twins of the air!”
With a flourish of his hand, the first act enters the stage. The twin trapeze artists clamber up the large poles, no ladders needed: hands clasped tightly, one over the other in a rapid succession. They move in reflected synchronization, mirroring each other perfectly as they reach the top, bow to all sides, untie the trapezes. With a breath and a leap, they plummet together. Their airborne acrobatics inspire gasps and squeals, the lack of a net causes spectators to lean forward in their seats. Businessmen fidget like the anxious young boys beside them, eyes glued to every twist. Grown women bite their fingernails as their eyes follow the airborne dance. The crowd barely dares to breathe, as if a single puff of air could blow the sister off of her trajectory, send her flailing into the stands out of her brother’s reach. There is a collective release of air, a visual relaxation in the stands as the twins finally land on their platforms, bow, slide down the poles.
“Gemini!” the ringmaster calls again, inviting applause, granting the twins time to bow, to exit. More acts follow – clowns and elephants, zebras and trained dogs, knife throwers, a strongman, a tiger-tamer. Gasps and applause, laughter and cheers, music and the ringmaster’s voice fill the night. Then the time comes. “Now, children of all ages,” the ringmaster rumbles, “The act you all came for – though I hope the others did not disappoint. This young man is the final spark of our evening, to fan your excitement.” As he speaks, a steady silence falls. The main attraction, the act advertised weeks in advance, the boy who made his father’s circus famous once more. Everyone has been waiting for “The Dance.”
Young women in the audience suppress squeals and giggles as they observe the lad entering the ring while his father speaks. The young man boasts perfectly tan skin. Bright blue hair with crimson tips frames his face, the rest pulled into a scraggly ponytail that erupts from the back of his head. Viper-green eyes dance with delight as he takes in the crowd. Black vines travel around his right eye, back into his hair line, and an earring resembling a crystal flame catches the light. His toned muscles, oiled with sweat and something else, almost seem to glow under the spotlights. Black leggings cling tightly to his waist before billowing around his legs and clenching around his ankles. Dancing blue flames leap up the fabric from around his ankles, the design echoed on his black vest. Obsidian-colored metal bracers clasp his forearms. Behind him, two of the clowns playfully stagger under a box filled with his tools – batons, juggling balls, and vial upon vial of oil to fuel his flames. He waits patiently for the ringmaster to finish, for the clowns to exit, bending down and collecting three small balls. He takes the first ball and strikes it against a bracer; bright blue flames burst to life, spreading quickly to the other balls. Protected by the ointment coating his skin and clothing, the fire-wielder tosses the balls experimentally as the ringmaster finishes the introduction, bellows his name: “Ela!”
While the A hangs in the air, he begins. One at first, up and down, a steady one-handed rhythm. Then he tosses the third ball and catches it on his ankle like a hacky-sack, resting it there as he twirls the other two, up and down at first, his other hand tucked behind his back. He motions for the clown to toss him a fourth and then a fifth ball; soon a bright blue circle of fire hangs in the hair, burning an image into the retinas of his captivated crowd, so that even if they blink they see his performance.
His ankle shifts. With a steady beat, the waiting ball leaps up and lands, kicks up again, even as the four in his hands start a pattern of figure eights. Ela kicks the ball higher, hops to his other foot, catches it with the now-free ankle. Then he does it again, only he kicks the ball into the circle and drops a new one on his ankles. Time and time again, flawlessly, with a steady rhythm. Only now is the rhythm noticed, only as the crowd breaths and their eyes adjust do their ears wake and realize a small section of the band is playing along in time with the performance.
Ela quickly catches all of the balls and tosses them in the dirt, the flames dimming to the light of a candle. The young flame-tamer reaches into his box and pulls out two long strings with weighted balls at the end, swinging them around playfully. Then he dashes them into the dirt, strikes them against the balls, spreading the flames. The blue dances up the line, halting just before his fingertips. Ela’s face remains relaxed as he easily twirls the lines, leading the weighted flames into an intricate pattern, blazing through the air, leaving streaks of colors. His muscles bunch together, thrown into existence by the shadows caused from the flames. His body speaks of control, every step measured, every breath timed, and yet his face reveals him to be enjoying his blue dance. A pivot here, a slide there, moving expertly around the flaming juggling balls still resting in the dirt.
A collective gasp from the crowd causes the flames to sputter as Ela tosses a line, catches it, swings the flaming end around him; the momentum allows him to throw up his other arm, release the other line, repeat. All too soon Ela is spinning in a wide circle, slower and slower as the taut lines slacken and lower, the weighted ends soon drawing a circle in the dirt before Ela releases them. They rest with the juggling balls, a circle of seven bright blue flames flickering around Ela who stands exactly in the center. He bends slowly, crossing his arms in front of him, touching the bracers together.
A new oil slicks across the metal, trails to his hands. He spreads his arms to the side, hovering them over where the weighted lines rest. A spark dances, suspended in air, before the flame latches on and burns brightly, racing to the edge of the bracers. A scream escapes one of the more gullible watchers, someone convinced the young man has erred, but Ela only smiles as his eyes dance in mischief and he stands. He holds his arms out to either side, flaunting the dance of the flames. Then, steadily, he joins. His body ripples and sways with the flames, his feet remaining in the center of the circle even as he spins.
The lights dim until only the flames remain. The beat of the band follows the tambourine’s lead as the young man loses himself in the rhythm. His muscles obey every command, bending, turning, swaying, flipping, twisting, landing, pivoting, again and again and again until he dances no more, circling until he kneels amongst the flames. A heavy curtain drops from the air; no one had seen the twins climbing, leaping in the air, spreading it in preparation, all eyes having been on Ela. The cloth douses the flames until the tent is plunged in darkness. When the lights rise, the floor is empty and the ringmaster returns. The dance has ended.
There is a hesitation in the air before the first smattering, and then applause erupts through the stands. But the lad does not pay it any mind. The sounds of the tent and his father’s voice fade into the distance as he treks through the darkened circus streets. One hand in his pocket, he calmly walks towards his tent and away from the excitement. His eyes are on the stars as his free hand twirls a small blue flame along its fingers.
“How was that?” he asks the air, the sky, the stars, the spirits. Her spirit. Though no answer comes, he could swear the night shines a little brighter, her celestial smile; the flame flickers playfully in his grasp, her mirthful hazel eyes. As he reaches the tents in the back – meant for function, not entertainment, dull browns and muted greens—he douses the last little spark and slips into his personal tent. Sparsely furnished with a portable cot, a small desk, and one chair, the cot is the closest thing to a home Ela has ever known. No, that’s not quite true. One thing closer. When she was there, and they lived in the same tent like a real family. Before his father pitched a separate tent, unable to stand the memories.
Ela strides purposefully to his desk and sits, wiping his hands on a nearby towel before reaching for the photograph. Her photograph. The gilded frame highlights the monochromatic tones, the soft white face smiling up at him. He imagines her, superimposing his memories to the photograph. Dark tones become crimson strands, grey turns to hazel eyes, and almost-white shifts to a tanned tint. He imagines the photo moving, the woman blinking, and the slow smile on her face spreading. In her tight green outfit with dark green lines and sparkles, a vine of emeralds, she turns and gathers an equally red-haired little boy into her arms.
“The fire suits you,” she tells him, smiling. “But you must remember: never try to control what you love. You must embrace it, dance with it. Only then will passion shine.”
Ela wonders if his imagination is adding the sadness to her eyes now. If his own emotions are bleeding through as he remembers the reason the circus’ Big Top no longer has a tightrope.