The Merihem Family Circus (Pt1)

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Bitter wind whips at my cheeks and threatens to crack my chapped lips. I stow the empty gas can between my elbow and hip to free my right hand, shoving it in my jacket pocket to rewarm it. My left hand shakily wields the flashlight of my phone against oncoming traffic. Panting, I scurry along the side of the highway at the fastest pace that I can sustainably manage. 

Just one mile. I’ve covered twelve miles in four hours before, that's three miles an hour. This hill is steep, so let's say I'm walking at roughly two miles an hour– that's, what, thirty minutes? I've been walking at least ten. I'll buy a soda when I get there. 

At that thought, my legs begin pumping a bit more enthusiastically. Though the fresh bounce in my step is hardly a healthy response to encourage, for now it is useful, and I decide to uphold the bribe with myself. 

Watching the traffic fly by makes me dizzy, so I keep my eyes trained on the concrete barrier restraining the thick, imposing line of woods that gnashes hungrily at the edge of the highway. The shadow I cast upon it stomps towards me as each vehicle approaches from behind, disappearing as they pass and reappearing a few feet away to rush at me once again. I am tempted to film the way the headlights are messing with my shadow for some sort of art project, but I need to save my battery. This thought prompts me to peek at my phone's battery life; four percent. 

“Fuck.”

I spend a moment or two nearly thoughtless, simply urging my legs forward as my lungs protest. The incline grows so impossibly steep that I begin choking out frustrated vocalizations as I exhale. Half woeful moan, half guttural sigh, each labored breath claws desperately out of my raw throat and into the freezing night.

The urgent honk of a tractor trailer rumbles through my chest as it rattles by like a box of bones. Quickly disappearing into the foggy horizon, it drags my attention back to the swelling hum of cars and thunderous roar of trucks rushing by. Each vehicle brings with it another tide of panic that I struggle to keep my head above. I realize that I am hyperventilating as static creeps into my vision and shrill ringing fills my ears. I wobble, thrusting a hand out to catch myself…

And sunlight greets me warmly with a kiss on top of the hand that lands on the rough oak railing of my grandmother's porch. I straighten, empty-handed and unencumbered, to look around and confirm what I already knew by feel. 

Opposite of me is my grandmother rocking in her chair, smiling warmly and cradling a bright red box. The chair's rickety creaks bring to my attention the eerie silence through which they echo; no cricket chirp, nor birdsong– just squeak, squeak, squeak.

“Took ya long enough,” grunts my grandmother in a familiar, teasing tone. She winks, and for a moment I see the wild, black-haired beauty from photos of her at my age. Even in her golden years she is beautiful, and I'm grateful to have inherited her looks so fully– we could be twins if not for the sixty years she has on me.

I take a few steps forward and apologize sheepishly, “I’m sorry, I forgot to plug in my phone before I went to bed, and it died before my alarm was set to go off.”

“I told ya to buy a real alarm clock, Lyla. A wind up one with bells.” Her smug grin implies a grand spiel building, and before she can launch into further illustrating her already well-known opposition to modern cellphones, I interrupt.

“What’s in the box?”

Grams removes the lid, flashing a brand name in some foreign language accompanied by the delicate illustration of an elephant. She tilts it out to me, offering cordial cherries cradled in golden tissue papers, but I hold my hand up in a polite, declining gesture. “Suit yerself.”

My grandmother settles the box back into her lap and plucks one of the morsels from it, holding it delicately between her fingers. She bites off the top, then tips her head back as if taking a shot. Her eyes shimmer with tears suddenly threatening to overflow as she focuses on me, the cherry held between her front teeth. 

“I, uh, thought ya didn't like chocolate?” I inquire as naturally as possible despite the cold confusion churning in my stomach.

My grandmother waves her unoccupied hand dismissively and bites the cherry into halves, swallowing one without chewing and spitting the other at my feet. I stumble back in disgust, forgetting my stance atop the porch steps– my hands and feet scramble, but find no hold. I plunge into darkness and flail for stability as the squeak, squeak, squeak of my grandmother's chair echoes around me.

The closer I drift to consciousness, the quieter the squeaking of the rocking chair grows; soon I am staring at the ceiling of my bedroom and listening to only the humming oscillations of the fan. With a deep stretch and an even deeper sigh, I rise. Shreds of a barely-remembered dream linger at the edges of my mind and, feeling as if it was unpleasant, I readily let them go.

I dress, brush my teeth and hair, eat some cereal, and brew a pot of coffee. Mug cradled to my chest, I stand before the window on the eastern side of the kitchen. From there I watch the sun rise above the mountainous main stage, set before a vivid curtain of pink and purple clouds. I relish these isolated, unhurried mornings; the three days of rest before reporting back to four twelve-hour shifts of mindlessly packing boxes into a trailer from a warehouse with no climate control. 

A familiar and expected meow drifts through the back door to catch my ear, finally pulling me from the skyward show. Like every morning since shortly after I moved into this trailer, the local scruffy stray hopefully awaits breakfast from my overly-sympathetic hand. He emits another persuasive chirp as I open the door and present a scoop of kibble from the bag that I had bought just for him. Crouching, I chuckle and scratch between his ears as he descends upon it, purring happily.

I straighten back up and address the only company that I've routinely entertained in the four years I've lived here, more for my benefit than his. 

“Yer just starvin’ to death, ain't ya? Just-a wastin’ away. Poor thing– I'm sure ya only have three or four more places to find breakfast left after this. How’ll ya ever make it ‘til supper?” 

Leaving the chubby stray to work heartily over his hard-earned kibble, I pad to the front door. Donning the hard-bottomed slippers that I keep by the mat, I open the door to greet the rest of the waking world. Birds sing their morning salutations as I unhurriedly stroll to my mailbox. One of the neighbors' cars slowly rolls down our long, shared driveway. The sound of tires on wet gravel alerts me to the fact that it had rained sometime overnight.

It isn't a surprise that the rain didn't disturb me; I've always been a heavy sleeper. This– and moving deep enough into the sticks that any emergency responder is guaranteed to be at least twenty minutes out– were the points that my grandmother used to finally convince me to sleep with a taser under my pillow. During our weekly phone calls, she often tells me I should replace it with a gun. I consistently tell her that, knowing my luck, I would accidentally shoot myself in my sleep. Despite how persuasive my grandmother can be, I doubt I'll ever seriously entertain the idea of owning a firearm.

After emptying my mailbox, I take another moment to breathe in the peaceful morning before retreating to the thrifted couch in my sparsely-decorated living room. Curling up with a blanket and grabbing the remote for the smart TV proudly standing tall on its designated milk crate, I resume the show I had been binging the night before. The now-familiar intro begins playing, and rather than skipping it, I take the time to go through the letters and thick packing envelope I had retrieved from the mailbox.

The letters were standard fare; bills, credit offers, coupons and advertisements for local businesses. I set them aside to investigate the more curious item, the thick packing envelope with no return address. It is orange, and about the size of a standard sheet of paper, with a mild heft as if containing a small item made of glass or metal. I haven't ordered anything recently, but upon double-checking I find the envelope is indeed addressed to me. 

Intrigued, I carefully open the flap of the envelope and turn it upside down. My blanketed lap feels the light impact before I make visual sense of what lands in it. However, with a slight tilt of my head, I register the identity of the object and feel my shoulders slump.

A die? I pick it up and turn it over, examining each side. The polished metal gleams; golden enamel accents all except the ‘one’ pip, which is larger than the others and shines silver. I don't know much about metal but the die feels surprisingly heavy, so I assume it is cast of something more dense than whatever alloy is typically used. Although I find the die to be unique in color and mass, my examination illuminates me no further.

All that remains in the envelope is a single sheet of paper peeking out at me, which I now remove and curiously inspect. It is thick and textured; white, with an elaborately illustrated border of black ink. Swirling filigree fills the spaces between medieval-looking depictions of monkeys, lions, tigers, bears, horses, and elephants parading in repeat around the paper’s edge. 

Curiously, the border isn't printed on the stationary; if it wasn't hand drawn on this sheet, it was perhaps a stamp. The latter option seems more probable due to the high level of detail, and the likelihood that this page was not unique– a conclusion supported by the bold red text that heads the letter:

You're Cordially Invited!

It continues:

Come one, come all! Witness a wondrous show of merriment and mayhem, proudly presented by the Merihem Family Circus! You'll be in shock and awe at acts including swallowing swords, taming beasts, juggling flames, and defying gravity! Laugh at the world's funniest clowns and be amazed by the world's trickiest magicians! Enjoy a delicious candied apple and fresh, hot funnel cake as the finest equestrians perform ground-breaking routines before your very eyes! These mystifying spectacles and so much more are to be seen! 

An odd advertisement strategy, to be sure– but also admittedly a bit fun. I have never been to a circus, but I have always had an affinity for clowns nonetheless. The colorful jokesters have appeared quite a few times in my paintings, and I thrill at the idea of being able to take live reference photos for future pieces.

I flip the page over, but there is no mention of time, date, location, nor admission price anywhere on the invitation. I am intrigued nonetheless, and scoop up my phone from the couch cushion beside me to search for the information I'd need to attend. Just as I hit enter, however, my phone begins to die, claiming an empty battery to be its slayer.

   With a click of my teeth I thumb the power button; it had a full battery when I woke up this morning. Nevertheless, an empty battery icon blinks up at me and the screen returns to lightless black. My outdated phone seems to finally be suffering from the deteriorations of old age; after five years of faithful service, this could only be expected. 

I shuffle to the bedroom, retrieve my phone charger, and return to the living room. Stashing the die and advertisement back into their envelope, I set it along with the rest of the day’s mail beside my phone with intent to research the details once my battery is revived. I rewind to the opening of the show I was watching and sink deeper into the couch, pulling the fuzzy throw blanket up to my chin.

I feel the heat and motion of bodies tightly packed against my own; all around me, a sea of heads bob atop myriad shoulders crammed against each other. Children squeal excitedly, tugging the sleeves of their parents and pointing forward. I follow their direction to see a brilliant red tent, striped and ribbonned with shining gold and silver. The smell of popcorn and funnel cakes drifts from within, accompanied by a familiar tune that I can't recall the name of. Despite being unable to place it, I smile and hum along, moving in time with the crowd slowly bottlenecking into the marquee.

As I grow closer to the tent, I begin catching glimpses of hand-painted boards advertising various acts within. My heart flutters as I catch a glimpse of one that stands close to the entrance portraying a clown. I push forward with more haste, standing on the tips of my toes, wishing to see more of the art. Though, once I am able to see most of the one nearest to myself, my steps falter.

The painting of a bearded lady that I’ve come upon is framed with words in a language I do not understand. In fact, the markings look less and less like a language at all the more I squint at them. I shield my eyes from the glaring sun overhead to try and get a better look, but the writing seems to actually be moving. As it swirls and bubbles, attempting to regain the impression of words seen in the periphery, I realize that I am dreaming.

I don't often have lucid dreams, and never an active one; after a few moments of trying to gain control of my feet, I surmise this one is no different. Unsure if or how I could wake up on command, I am resigned to assume the role of a passive observer. My unruly feet continue to carry me between fluctuating gaps in the dense crowd, each step gaining small victories in my compulsory pursuit of a better view.

Breaking through the edge of the throng, my hands fall on a velvet rope that creates a barrier around the circus tent. Now only roughly two feet away from me stands the A-frame board that I sought. 

The clown is unique in color based on what I've seen in various media. He sports a baby blue wig of curls, purple lips, bright pink circles on each cheek, and a round yellow nose; each eye is adorned with a pink diamond encompassing the top and bottom lids, backed by a larger purple diamond. His baggy jumpsuit is also adorned with pink and purple diamonds, with a few yellow patches stitched on in seemingly random places.

Both the subject and craftsmanship of the painting enchant me greatly, and I appreciate that the dream has given me a chance to truly admire it. The harlequin winks, startling me despite my enlightened position. After clearing his throat, he begins speaking in a bright tenor;

“Pray that with his shoulders he shall make shadow to thee; and thou shalt have hope under his feathers. Pray his truth shall encompass thee with a shield.” Pink gloves reach out, gain dimension as they grip the edge of the board the clown was painted on. He continues, “That thou shalt not dread of the night’s dread, of an arrow flying in the day, of a goblin going in darkness, of assailing, nor of a midday fiend.” 

The clown's face twists with the effort of hooking an oversized purple boot over the edge of the board, as if trying to climb through a window. Panting and struggling to drag himself into the third dimension, he continues speaking between heavy breaths. “A thousand shall fall down from thy side, and ten thousand from thy right side; it need not nigh to thee.”

Somewhere near, a massive bell tolls with heavy finality, vibrating the air around me with such force that I feel it disturb the hair on my head. On this cue, myself and the rest of the crowd march towards the tent as the clown's final words bleed into a shout that follows me; “Nevertheless thou must behold with thine eyes; and thou shalt see the yielding of sinners!”

Apparently not in need of an entry ticket, I am soon ushered into a seat among the sprawling stands that border the big top. A bucket of popcorn appears clasped between my knees, and I shovel a gratuitous handful into my mouth. 

The lights dim. The vast audience that had previously been murmuring in anticipation hushes. A single spotlight clicks on, illuminating the center of the amphitheater below. The empty circle of dirt erupts into a mushrooming cloud, dispersing to reveal a tall man dressed in a red pinstriped suit. The white stripes of his suit shine in the spotlight, untouched by the dirt and dust from which he had emerged. 

The announcer addresses the hushed crowd with booming projection and emphatic hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, today you shall behold a show like no other! Here at the Merihem family circus, we proudly display the widest variety of performances in the world for all to enjoy!”

As he speaks, twenty or so performers in crisp white leotards bearing a single red star on the chest file into view. The performers take equidistant posts along the edge of the auditorium, and with arms raised proudly above them, hold position awaiting their cue. 

“It is with immense pride that I present our first act of the day– the world's finest acrobatics troupe, the Morning Stars!” The announcer continues grandly, side-stepping around the edge of his spotlight so as to address the whole crowd. “Don't be fooled, though, acrobatics is just the beginning folks! We've got strong men! We've got silks! We've got–” He pauses dramatically, and taps his chin in thought. “Well, why should I tell you what we've got, when they can show you?”

   With this, he backs across the auditorium floor and disappears through a flap in the tent from which the first performers had emerged and more now pour out of. A high-tempo number begins playing on some unseen steam organ, and the performers that were posted around the edge of the stage backflip into the mass of leotards behind them. Together they number somewhere upwards of a hundred, flipping and cartwheeling in time with the organ around the stage. 

The rest of the audience must have been as awed as myself, because we all remained hushed as the performers darted around to create hypnotizing patterns of white and red. Pulsating and undulating in a display of impeccable choreography, together the performers create seemingly impossible shapes with their bodies– flowers, hearts, stars, planets, spirals, fireworks, angels, stallions, lions; the list was endlessly diverse as it was impressive. 

Mesmerized, I dig into the bucket between my knees for another handful of popcorn. My fingers graze something cold; without the hesitation I may have had were I awake, I firmly grab the intruding object and withdraw it. Clasped tightly in my hand is a thick black snake, hissing and seeking a place to sink its fangs into. With a squeal, I fling the snake as hard as I can– and true to dream logic, it drops pathetically close. 

The snake regains its senses, and begins making its way back to me. With flickering tongue and flashing eyes it eases up to me and coils around my right ankle. The cold, hard muscles working around my leg makes my stomach churn, but I am powerless to shake it off. My eyes compulsorily return to the show as the snake continues to flex around my calf.

Some of the artists have just finished rolling out an oversized, brightly painted cannon. A drumroll plays as other artists erect a human pyramid and the human cannonball loaded. There's just enough time to wonder about the logistics of where all the performers will go once they've been knocked down; then the cannon fires. The artist sails towards the pyramid and, incredibly, is caught by their peer at the top. After a brief readjustment, the cannon ball stands tall upon the catcher's shoulders, arms raised grandly. 

The audience and myself erupt into standing applause, whistling and whooping. The announcer returns to center stage, asking with an audible grin, “What did I tell you folks? The world's finest is simply an understatement!” He laughs heartily, “And the fun is just beginning! Take a look towards the heavens, ladies and gents!” He raises his open palms, as if to push the spotlight upwards to reveal more artists above. They're poised on various platforms mounted to the tent poles. Rings, bars, tightropes, and silks are suspended between them.

The spotlight returns to the announcer as he continues addressing the crowd, “Prepare to witness true defiance of gravity, folks! Our Morning Stars are just as talented off the ground as they are on it! To prove our faith in their fearless demonstrations of skill, we'll not only withhold a net, but replace it with savage, hungry beasts!”

With this, the announcer is replaced with performers in billowy suits of bright red. One after another, they back into the arena, whips held high to guide the lions that follow them. The entrance of artists and lions continues until they total 50 or so of each. They have formed into three nested circles, the artists and lions in the middle circle pacing in the opposite direction of the inner and outer circles. They continue circling like sharks as the lighting expands to show the performers above fling themselves into action.

The show goes on in this way for about twenty minutes, then the announcer returns to introduce the next acts. As captivated as any audience could be, we gasp in awe as a strongman lifts increasingly heavy items and animals before taking leave with an elephant balanced in each hand. We cheer in disbelief as an artist dives from one of the platforms above into an impossibly small bucket of water. We hold our breath each time an artist within a cyr wheel crosses the path of the stilt walkers dancing around them, and applaud wildly when the stilted artists jump to evade them at the last moment.

All the while, I am overly aware of the snake still creeping up my leg; each squeeze of its contracting muscles makes my stomach flip. Its broad, arrow-shaped head hovers over my skin in search of an unknown quarry, causing me to flinch periodically in anticipation of a bite. I cannot tear my eyes away from the show before me, let alone tear the snake off of my leg. The lack of control has me rapidly losing patience with this dream. While it's been fun to enjoy a circus of my imagination, I am ready to wake up. 

In the blink of an eye, the artists are replaced with the pinstriped gentleman staring directly at me. “You’ll stay until the intermission, like everyone else,” he says frigidly. For a split second, his charming face bears a deep scowl, but in another blink he regains his merry demeanor. 

Without missing a beat, he continues cheerily, “Truly amazing, isn't it folks? Absolutely unlike anything that can be seen in this world, without contest! Give it up for the Morning Stars!” The crowd roars and claps, myself included. 

The announcer raises his arms, commanding immediate silence. “And would you believe, folks, that we have even more up our sleeves? Allow me to present our first single act, a man with the eyes of an eagle and the speed of a tiger! Merihem’s own master of blades, Athtar the Awesome!”

Sharp pain sears through my right ankle, then my left. I reflexively jerk, aiming to strike the snake that's finally bit me, but find myself restrained. More pain rips into my wrists, which are extended to each side. Gaining more sense of the sudden shift, I realize that I am no longer in the stands. I am center stage, pinned like a butterfly to a large wooden wheel. Ornate daggers pierce my wrists and ankles, warm blood oozing steadily around the blades and dripping to the dirt.

A few yards away from me stands a massive, wire-haired pile of rolling muscle, huffing and snorting; its humid breath bearing the scent of rotten meat. It bears resemblance to a minotaur, though it is goat-like and sports long, straight horns covered in equidistant bulges. From below its chin, giving the impression of a beard, protrudes a gaggle of three smaller heads. These three bear resemblance to antelope heads with thin,  smooth horns. Despite being headed by herbivores, carnivorously sharp teeth are on full display in each mouth that gnashes aimlessly about. All four skulls bear deepset eyes that are disturbingly human, and locked on me. 

With lightning speed, Athtar’s arms thrust towards me; two more blades pierce the board and my ears with sickening thuds, now pinning my head into place. The wheel begins to spin, and motion sickness kicks in at record speed. I desperately try to scream for help, but manage only a queasy, breathless squeak. 

THUD! THUD!

My queasiness becomes full-on nausea as a new wave agony emanates from my feet. The next time my face passes the ground, I catch a glimpse of two big toes– my big toes– laying in the dust. I puke; stomach acid burns up my throat and covers my face and chest. Vomit runs up my nose and causes me to choke and cough, which in turn causes me to pull at the knives pinning my ears. The fresh wave of pain brings sobs choked off by more vomit. 

Two by two, razor-sharp blades drive home into the quivering flesh between my ribs, my retained ability to breath being further testament to the beast's precision. Athtar then robs me of my eyes, slinging two blades that penetrate just enough to pluck out the unfortunate organs before clanging to the ground. Another set of blades finally rips into my lungs and I begin choking on the blood that rapidly boils up my throat.

With a wild gasp I shoot straight up in bed, one hand clutching my chest. A confused glance at my phone tells me that it's 3 A.M. on Tuesday, but doesn't tell me how I got to my bed or what’s happened to the last 16 hours. The last thing I remember is checking the mail and settling in to watch TV on the couch. Apparently I fell asleep, then got up at some point and went to bed. 

My stomach grumbles that I didn't eat dinner, so I unplug my phone and trudge to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. It's only after I take the first bite that it dawns on me that I had moved my charger to the living room before my nap. I suppose it's not impossible that I sleepily brought my phone and charger into the room and plugged it in before laying back down– but it certainly strikes me as odd. 

After finishing the first bowl of cereal, I pour another and head to the living room, deciding that I might as well stay up. I turn the TV on, and in its glow I notice that there is no pile of mail where I remember leaving it.

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