The Ladies of the Secret Circus

by Constance Sayers

  “The seat of honor.” He motioned toward a teal velvet chair—what looked like a throne—located in the empty front row.

  Shane walked over to the center of the ring and stood there. The room went dark, and then a spotlight appeared on him. “Ladies… and, well, Lady… may I introduce your ringmaster tonight. The creator of this circus…”

  There was a drumroll, followed by the smash of cymbals—the spotlight searching, circling until it finally focused on a set of double doors that opened. No one emerged.

  “Oh fuck,” said Shane. “I’ll be right back. Time for a costume change.”

  The spotlight went dark and the doors shut tightly. Then the spotlight flashed again and this time a man emerged from the doors. He was dressed as the ringmaster in a gold top hat and tails. His black boots and jodhpurs shimmered. He greeted Lara as a late-night comedian does his studio audience. It’s him! Althacazur.

  “Welcome, my dear.” His voice echoed in the empty arena. “I know.” He looked down at himself; his brown curls touched his shoulders. “I like this form much better, too. You’ve seen me not only as Shane Speer but also as the janitor from Le Cirque de Fragonard. You see, I can hop circuses pretty easily.” He put one of his polished boots up on the wooden banister that separated the front row from the circle. “Tell me, which one of me do you like best?”

  The man who’d rescued her from the lady at the Père Lachaise and had shown her the painting of Cecile Cabot? That had been him? “You said you’d find me,” said Lara, in awe of the entire spectacle in front of her. This world was beautiful. She stared around the big top. It was magnificent!

  “And so I did,” he said with a wink.

  “Why?” At the gala, he’d said that he’d made her magic strong, but none of this made sense.

  “Ah yes… we’ll get to that in a moment.” He bowed deeply, as if Queen Elizabeth stood in front of him, his brown curls tipping over in cascades before he secured his top hat. “I’m so pleased you could join us tonight, Lara Margot Barnes. Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am your host, Althacazur. We’re a little out of practice at Le Cirque Secret, so please bear with us tonight. It’s our first show in front of an audience in seventy-some years. We have some new members of the troupe as well, and they’re excited to perform just for you.”

  As he circled—or rather pranced—around the floor, Lara saw a small monkey scamper to him. Mr. Tisdale? As if he could read her mind, Althacazur smiled. “Oh yes, you’ve met Mr. Tisdale. Tis, it seems Miss Barnes remembers you. You made quite an impression.”

  Mr. Tisdale waved his small hand at her.

  She found herself waving back at the little creature.

  “Mr. Tisdale says that it would be very rude of me not to explain ourselves to you first. Well, welcome to Le Cirque Secret. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.” He stopped as if on cue, waiting for Lara to reply.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Try to interact with us a bit, Miss Barnes. It helps.” He circled the ring like it was a stage and he, a modern-day rock star.

  The little monkey’s head followed Althacazur’s every move, seemingly as mesmerized as Lara was.

  “So other than the complaints you expressed earlier about including warnings on it”—he rolled his eyes—“did you like my carousel, Miss Barnes? If you recall, you tried to pull it through to your world once?”

  Lara nodded. “I did.”

  “Oh, it’s one of my greatest creations. It goes back”—he stopped, like a comedian waiting for a punch line, then laughed like a teenager telling a dirty joke—“in time.”

  Mr. Tisdale clapped as if on cue. It was then that Lara noticed that he and Althacazur were wearing matching outfits.

  “Forgive me, I should explain because the internet doesn’t do me justice. I am the premier daemon of… well, fun shit. Let me be clear. First, please be sure to put the a in daemon. We hate it when it is left off, makes us look like barbarians. The a is so elegant, don’t you think?” He waited for her reply. “I’m also known as Althacazar”—he emphasized the a—“and Althacazure.” He focused on the very French pronunciation of the latter.

  “Quite elegant,” said Lara, finally agreeing.

  “Do try to keep up.” He put his hand to his chin like he was considering something. “So, what was I saying? Oh yes, I am the daemon of lust… wine… music… sex… everything that makes the world go ’round is in my purview.”

  Althacazur looked down at the adoring monkey. “I know. Mr. Tisdale here was once quite famous himself.” The monkey gazed down at his foot modestly. As if performing a Shakespeare aside, Althacazur leaned in, placing his boot on the ledge again directly in front of her, and whispered loudly, “He might have led a country in his previous life.” He turned to the monkey, who cast his eyes down toward the ground. “Is that fair to say? Well, he doesn’t like to talk about it too much, but let’s say he ruled a country some years back that’s famous for its gelato. Am I right, Tis?”

  The monkey looked ashamed, embarrassed at having his identity revealed in this current form.

  “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s been a great manager of the circus. He gets a little nostalgic for his old being, but, well… that isn’t to be anymore, is it, Tis?”

  The defeated monkey shook his head. Lara was mortified to think that if the clues were correct, the monkey standing in front of her was once… Benito Mussolini?

  As if he could read her mind, the poor creature looked up at her, squeaked, and sulked off, his head hanging.

  “Oh, Miss Barnes. A little rule. Please don’t say or think the actual names of my creatures in their previous lives. It reminds them of who they once were. You can hint at it, but never say it. Tisdale, Tisdale, come back… she didn’t mean it.”

  Althacazur turned to her. “You must understand… everyone in my collection was once a famous performer of some type or another… opera singers… rock stars… politicians. Ah… politicians are the best, by far. Such egomaniacs. I adore them!” He gave a jaunty jerk of his head in Tisdale’s direction. “They’ve all, well, ended up…” He pointed toward the floor. “Down there, as you all like to call it. But I said, ‘Fuck no, we’re going to get a troupe together and allow these poor damned souls to perform again.’ So here we are for one night only—Le Cirque Secret.” He pointed to her. His delivery was over the top, like a vaudeville performer.

  The doors opened and hordes of performers emerged—clowns, trapeze artists, bearded ladies carrying house cats in cages, followed by horses and elephants.

  Althacazur took the house cats from the bearded lady. He opened the door, and the cats jumped out. “Make sure Tisdale is out of sight.” He turned to Lara. “They try to eat him when they change.”

  Lara was confused until Althacazur snapped his fingers and the tabby and the black house cat morphed into a lion complete with a full mane and a black panther, respectively. Lara remembered the passage in Cecile’s diary. “Hercules and Dante.”

  “Oh, Miss Barnes, the cats will be so happy to hear that you know them. Come, come…” He motioned for her to join him in the ring. Was he really suggesting she go into the ring with a lion and a panther?

  “Yes,” he said, answering her thought. “I am suggesting it. Move your ass, Miss Barnes.”

  Lara got up from the velvet throne and stepped gingerly into the ring. The lion noticed her first and walked over to her, like it was sizing her up. Gripped with fear, Lara stood still until the animal paced around her, finally stopping in front of her. Lara reminded herself that in all likelihood this cat was no taller than her shin, but damn, the lion looked real.

  “I assure you,” said Althacazur, considering his fingernails. “He’s a house cat. A tiny little thing.” As if on command, the lion roared loudly, causing Lara to scream.

  “Hercules,” commanded Althacazur. “Up.” The lion jumped onto a pedestal and sat watching the ringmaster for further commands. “Dante.” The man turned and raised his arms; the sleek black cat sto
od up on his hind legs. Althacazur patted the cat on the head as he walked past. “Go to Miss Barnes,” he commanded.

  Lara could hear his front paws as they landed heavily on the wooden floor. Like Hercules before him, the cat circled Lara before sitting in front of her like a dog. He was so large that in the sitting position, his head was near her throat.

  “Don’t give him ideas. Just give him a treat.”

  Lara looked confused.

  Althacazur sighed, bored.

  She could see that his amber eyes with flat pupils stood out vividly. Was that eyeliner? Thick black eyeliner.

  “In your pocket, Miss Barnes.”

  Lara reached into her pocket and pulled out a Pounce cat treat.

  “Give it to him, Miss Barnes. Before he gets pissed. Tell him he’s a good boy.”

  Lara extended a shaking hand out to the cat. He turned his head to remove the treat gently with his tongue.

  From the pedestal above her, the lion roared loudly.

  “I know, I know,” said Althacazur. “But you haven’t done anything for Miss Barnes to earn a treat, have you, Hercules? You lazy animal.”

  The lion jumped to the floor and lay in front of Lara like the Sphinx. As if he was waiting for a dramatic point in the routine, he executed a perfect roll. Lara reached into her pocket to find another treat. She held out her hand, and the lion, who now stood before her, took it gently.

  “Snap your fingers, Miss Barnes.”

  Lara looked at Althacazur, who made a snapping motion like she was an idiot. She snapped her fingers, and just like in an episode of Bewitched, the panther and lion sat perched in front of her as two small cats, their tails flicking back and forth. She reached into her pocket again and found two more treats. She bent over and gave each cat one more.

  “You liked that one, didn’t you?”

  Lara smiled and petted the animals.

  The bearded lady came by and swatted them lightly, sensing their reluctance to go to their cages.

  The show continued as two clowns entered and began to screw off their limbs.

  Lara watched in horror as they exchanged left arms and right legs, then one took the other by the head and rotated until his head came off; in turn, the headless body held on while the other clown rotated around him until his own head came off. They tossed the heads back and forth as the heads continued to chatter to each other. Then each took the opposite head, placed it on top of his neck, and rotated it back on.

  Althacazur clapped as the clowns bowed and exited. “I just love that one. You’d never guess who that was in a million years. The irony of the heads coming off… you just can’t design this stuff any better.” Althacazur circled in front of her, still clapping. “Now, this one is just for you.”

  The door opened and a figure came out—a large one—a towering figure with eight fucking legs. Jesus. Lara had a thing about spiders. A bad thing. Ever since Peter Brady had the tarantula on his chest on The Brady Bunch vacation episode in Hawaii, Lara had hated spiders. Worst thing about buying an old house? Spiders. Now bounding toward her was one that stood at least eight feet tall.

  “Seven,” corrected Althacazur, his eyebrow raised. “Seven feet tall. Your inner voice exaggerates.”

  Lara felt sweat beading on her lip. “I suppose this little guy is actually the size of a postage stamp, too?”

  Althacazur leaned against the bandstand and lit a cigarette. “Nope. She’s fucking huge. Am I right?”

  The spider slowly approached and then lifted her front legs, exposing giant furry fangs. From the countless books Lara had read about spiders—from the Sydney funnel-web spider that chased down your ass to the black widow that lurked in woodpiles—she knew this was bad, very bad. But underneath the arachnid was—a woman. Was a woman pinned to the thorax?

  Lara felt bile rise in her throat. She was definitely going to vomit.

  On second glance, the woman was not attached to the spider so much as she was the thorax—her arms and legs transformed to spider legs. When the spider got close, she could see that the woman looked just like her. Lara felt her blood drain, then her body became heavy.

  The next thing she felt was Tisdale’s leathery fingers touching her. She had passed out in the ring.

  “Did I faint?”

  The monkey nodded. The arena was now empty, and Althacazur was chuckling.

  “That is my biggest nightmare,” Lara said, gulping.

  “You should have seen your face.” His eyes were wide with excitement. “Wasn’t it groovy, though, staring down your fear.” He peered down her. “I mean, you literally stared it down.”

  She looked toward her left at Tisdale, who seemed sympathetic.

  “Get her up, Tisdale, shake her off a bit.”

  The monkey patted Lara, who got to her feet and looked behind her to make sure her giant spider-self wasn’t lurking in the entrance.

  “I’ll stop toying with you now, Lara,” said Althacazur. “You can take your seat.”

  Lara returned to the giant throne in the front row, checking her watch to see what time it was, but the display still showed one minute after eleven—the exact time she’d come through the doors. At this point it could have been minutes or days.

  The pin spotlights came on, and the orchestra roared to life. Althacazur sashayed out from the pit. “Mesdames et messieurs, welcome to Le Cirque Secret—where nothing is as it seems.” He cocked his top hat and the lights came up, revealing a full house of people—actual patrons.

  Men and women dressed in their finest—dresses and coats and hats from another time. She saw top hats resting on laps; in front of her where it had not been a few moments ago was a silver plate with a glass of champagne.

  “Popcorn?” Lara turned to find a small black bear wearing a tulle collar of aquamarine with bronze sequined beading and carrying a tray.

  “I know,” said the bear, moving his neck uncomfortably in his collar. “It’s a bit much. Itchy, too.”

  “Thank you.” Lara slid the popcorn bag from his outstretched hand. He scanned the rest of the rows like a flight attendant with a beverage cart.

  Lara looked at the man next to her. Was he real? He appeared to be real, but his coat was wool and it was July. The women wore their hair up or severely bobbed. If she had to guess, the clothing placed them in the early 1920s. Lara caught the man’s eye, and he winked at her. Immediately she turned and looked forward, sinking into her seat. He looked so familiar, and it took Lara a moment to realize that he was the man in the audience from the Sylvie on the Steed painting, the one who was pointing. Quickly she turned her head to sneak a confirming look. Yes, it was definitely him.

  A steady beat came from the bass drum, followed by strings. It was a familiar opening—Gustav Mahler’s “Vampire Song.” Everyone in the ring scrambled.

  In the center, women in white skirts and top hats over Raggedy-Ann-red hair juggled. The jugglers parted and two women were spun on separate wheels while jesters in matching blue, red, and gold costumes threw knives at them.

  The act was familiar to anyone who had attended a simple street carnival. In a whoosh, a dozen women rotated a giant wheel in place at the center of the ring. The women were a strange sight, their otherworldly crimson tresses trimmed to resemble yard hedges—one with a tidy single cone above her head, like a tipped ice cream cone; the other with two cone peaks projected above her ears; their faces ghostly white with exaggerated Cupid’s bow lips to match their hair.

  After a flurry of set changes, the spotlight panned and a woman and man emerged holding hands before taking their places.

  As Edvard Grieg’s “Hall of the Mountain King” began, a man donned a blindfold while a woman stepped onto the wheel. Without much fanfare, the man gathered his arsenal into a leather satchel that he slung from his left shoulder and in one movement both turned and emptied his collection of knives and axes at the tall, smirking blonde. Metal scraped as the blades left the leather bag and then thunked as each hit the intended target.
Rather than savoring each throw, the thrower dispatched his blades much like bullets from a gun. Lara watched as the audience, so sure they knew what was to happen next, settled back in their velvet chairs. Anyone standing in the alcove could hear the clinking of glasses as the bored patrons in the darkened hall took sips of their champagne. In the dimly lit seating area, Lara could make out the faces of the audience—they were bored, as if this act was nothing spectacular. Hell, the opera was better.

  The thrower removed his blindfold and admired his handiwork, allowing the dramatic moment to hang for an intended beat too long. Somewhere near the top of the stands, a man coughed as if to prod the thrower to get on with the next reveal—which of course had to be the unveiling of the woman, stepping off the wheel without a scrape on her.

  Except it wasn’t.

  Like an adjustment the eye makes from light to dark, Lara saw the woman on the wheel come sharply into focus. The patrons in the front row nearest to the spectacle sat forward in their seats, sure their eyes were playing tricks on them. Next came audible gasps, Lara’s included. The scene came into focus, spreading backward and catching the throats of the audience, until the full horror reached the very top. Lara swooned with them, bile rising again in her throat.

  The woman had, in fact, been severed like a felled tree trunk. All her limbs, as well as her neck, were chopped with manic precision—a bloodless upper thigh rolling off the board and settling at the feet of the patrons in the front row, causing a delicate lady to scream and then faint. Back on the wheel, the woman didn’t bleed, but rather seemed to separate, her severed head resting at an odd angle with her eyes open.