again?”
“Emma.”
Taylon writes in his notebook, flips the page, and then holds the book out to me. When I take it from him, he jumps back. Through the paper, I can see the letters “ Ema – human” along with a description of me and a word-for-word account of our entire conversation earlier today.
“What do you want to tell me?” I hand her the notebook.
She writes and then holds it up. “Thank you,” the note says.
“You’re welcome.” I wish I could do more for her. Set her free of her prison. Let her find her people.
She cocks her head, studying me, and then scrawls across the page again. “I like it here. For a moment, I can rest and sleep. In quiet.”
And there I see that haunting pain in her eyes again. I wonder what it would be like to be forced to sing all of eternity. Never dying. Never resting.
“Why?” I reach out and touch her hand gently.
“The magic—the curse—will never let me go,” she writes.
I smile sadly and give her hand a squeeze.
THE LIGHTS DIM and the crowd hushes. Holding my breath, I sit on the edge of my seat and lean forward. Enchanted music full of the spice of India plays; the lights brighten slowly, casting a rosy gleam across the center circus ring. A nagini coils in the center of the stage. From the hips down she is a snake, green and blue scales glinting in the rosy light, but the top half of her, clad in something skimpy, is voluptuous woman. I’d give my favorite snowboard to have curves like that.
She rises higher, dancing to the rhythm. The music surrounds her, and she squirms and twists, more graceful than any ballerina, more seductive than any belly dancer.
I watch in wonder, my own body wanting to move and dance, the music deep inside me calling to some deeper nature that I never knew existed.
The lights dim and then brighten again, and seven white unicorns canter into the ring. On their backs stand tall, thin people with pointed ears. One of them is Taylon .
Long blue hair, the braids undone and his hair now flowing down his back, Taylon is dressed in a dazzling green outfit, something Peter Pan or Robin Hood might have worn, complete with a feathered cap, and he carries a bow. Leaping into the air and flipping high, he fires a shot at a target hanging in the center of the ring and lands on the horse behind him.
The audience claps as the arrow lands in the center of the bull’s eye.
“Elves have great aim,” Jason whispers.
“I figured that out.”
He nods but doesn’t glance at me—his gaze transfixed on the ballerinas before us. A pang of jealousy pierces my heart, but I push it away. I remind myself that kiss didn’t mean anything. He was love- potioned and didn’t know what he was doing.
In the ring below us, Taylon drops his bow and lifts one of the girls by the waist; she flips herself up and lands on his shoulders. Her pink tutu flounces as she pirouettes again and again without faltering.
As she lands, her foot slips; the audience gasps.
She wobbles before catching her balance.
The audience cheers.
The unicorns and ballerinas prance and dance and perform astounding tricks, and then the lights dim again.
When the lights brighten, the ring is dominated with a cage containing a creature with a lion body and a man’s head.
The manticore roars, the sound ripping through my skin, tearing at my ears, and leaving me breathless, and the audience falls silent. As one, we lean forward, holding our breath. My own heart hammers painfully in my throat as if it could leap through my mouth and run away in fear.
Tall and thin, skin stretched tight over his pale face, the lion tamer cracks his whip, and the manticore stands up on his hind legs. He must be at least three stories tall.
“What a sweet pussycat.” The lion tamer curls his long, thin mustache around his finger.
The crowd laughs.
The manticore’s tail flits from side to side in the standard cat-language way of saying, “I’m about to pounce.”
But the manticore
“Emma.”
Taylon writes in his notebook, flips the page, and then holds the book out to me. When I take it from him, he jumps back. Through the paper, I can see the letters “ Ema – human” along with a description of me and a word-for-word account of our entire conversation earlier today.
“What do you want to tell me?” I hand her the notebook.
She writes and then holds it up. “Thank you,” the note says.
“You’re welcome.” I wish I could do more for her. Set her free of her prison. Let her find her people.
She cocks her head, studying me, and then scrawls across the page again. “I like it here. For a moment, I can rest and sleep. In quiet.”
And there I see that haunting pain in her eyes again. I wonder what it would be like to be forced to sing all of eternity. Never dying. Never resting.
“Why?” I reach out and touch her hand gently.
“The magic—the curse—will never let me go,” she writes.
I smile sadly and give her hand a squeeze.
THE LIGHTS DIM and the crowd hushes. Holding my breath, I sit on the edge of my seat and lean forward. Enchanted music full of the spice of India plays; the lights brighten slowly, casting a rosy gleam across the center circus ring. A nagini coils in the center of the stage. From the hips down she is a snake, green and blue scales glinting in the rosy light, but the top half of her, clad in something skimpy, is voluptuous woman. I’d give my favorite snowboard to have curves like that.
She rises higher, dancing to the rhythm. The music surrounds her, and she squirms and twists, more graceful than any ballerina, more seductive than any belly dancer.
I watch in wonder, my own body wanting to move and dance, the music deep inside me calling to some deeper nature that I never knew existed.
The lights dim and then brighten again, and seven white unicorns canter into the ring. On their backs stand tall, thin people with pointed ears. One of them is Taylon .
Long blue hair, the braids undone and his hair now flowing down his back, Taylon is dressed in a dazzling green outfit, something Peter Pan or Robin Hood might have worn, complete with a feathered cap, and he carries a bow. Leaping into the air and flipping high, he fires a shot at a target hanging in the center of the ring and lands on the horse behind him.
The audience claps as the arrow lands in the center of the bull’s eye.
“Elves have great aim,” Jason whispers.
“I figured that out.”
He nods but doesn’t glance at me—his gaze transfixed on the ballerinas before us. A pang of jealousy pierces my heart, but I push it away. I remind myself that kiss didn’t mean anything. He was love- potioned and didn’t know what he was doing.
In the ring below us, Taylon drops his bow and lifts one of the girls by the waist; she flips herself up and lands on his shoulders. Her pink tutu flounces as she pirouettes again and again without faltering.
As she lands, her foot slips; the audience gasps.
She wobbles before catching her balance.
The audience cheers.
The unicorns and ballerinas prance and dance and perform astounding tricks, and then the lights dim again.
When the lights brighten, the ring is dominated with a cage containing a creature with a lion body and a man’s head.
The manticore roars, the sound ripping through my skin, tearing at my ears, and leaving me breathless, and the audience falls silent. As one, we lean forward, holding our breath. My own heart hammers painfully in my throat as if it could leap through my mouth and run away in fear.
Tall and thin, skin stretched tight over his pale face, the lion tamer cracks his whip, and the manticore stands up on his hind legs. He must be at least three stories tall.
“What a sweet pussycat.” The lion tamer curls his long, thin mustache around his finger.
The crowd laughs.
The manticore’s tail flits from side to side in the standard cat-language way of saying, “I’m about to pounce.”
But the manticore
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