Madison Esshaki

I should have listened to my father.

He was right. Le cirque is not at all what I’d imagined. 

The rope eats at my bare wrist, tying my arms behind me in a knot that I cannot undo.

Breathing is difficult when you have a cloth around your mouth. Screaming is impossible.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? The boy’s nearly thirteen,” I hear a voice say. The voice is booming even in whisper, and it belongs to the ringmaster, Monsieur Maximon. There was a time when he’d been a friend to me, but now I know it was all a facade. 

“Do not worry, monsieur. The boy has talent. He will get us good money,” The head of the clowns, Allistair Brox, hisses, and I can almost feel the slippery smirk on his face. “We’ll look for a buyer tomorrow.”

Two men, overcome with the desire of money. Succumbed to the poison of greed. Their shadows appear on the other side of the striped tent cloth, misshapen like black ink spills. I quickly shut my eyes. Whether they think I’m dead or asleep, it doesn’t matter. 

Maximon walks in first. I can tell by his heavy footsteps and the smell of his pungent cigarette. I feel myself sweat as the footsteps move closer, and will myself to breathe steadily.

I don’t breathe at all when they stop. I feel Maximon’s breath hot on my face, and, through shut eyes, I can see in my mind the tightness his expression holds. I fight the urge to kick him hard.

“If you know what’s good for you, worthless boy,” he whispers to me. “Do not try to run.”

I stay silent until two men’s footsteps bleed into the night, and their voices are far from ear’s reach. Only then do I open my eyes to the dark tent where I sit.

It has been nearly three years since I joined le cirque.

Three years that I have been on my own. 

I wonder if it’s been enough time for my father to forget me. 

My father was born the son of a banker; wealthy and wise and admired by all. His greatest motivation has always been order, and he desires me to have the same. Papa is much like the cobblestone streets late in the evening; lifeless, somber, and always certain where he is going.

My mother, however– my mother had been different. She had been imaginative and colorful; open to new ideas and the capricious nature of life. From her, I had learned of the excitement of the circus. Jugglers, clowns and vibrant colors and lights had seemed so wonderful to my young, excited mind. Two opposite sides of a coin, my parents had been. Maman had always been the side in the sun; Papa in the shadow. 

When I was ten, a flu came and took Maman’s color away. 

That nearly broke my father. After weeks of sleepless nights and many empty liquor bottles, his fatherhood began to slip away from him. I was expected to behave and be quiet as he counted his money for days and days. When we spoke he scolded me for my impractical imagination and demanded I forget about the circus. 

It was too much for me. I wanted my mother back.

One cloudy night, the taunting melody of the street circus kept me awake, pounding in sync with my beating heart. So mesmerizing. So merry. So very, very, tempting.

So inviting that I stole bagfuls of my father’s gold, and I ran. 

Down the streets of Paris, to the red and white tents that welcomed me and my newly acquired wealth with open arms. I became their star juggler, and for three years I felt appreciated.

That all ended when the gold ran out. 

Tomorrow, I shall be sold for more. 

—

“Wake up, you fool.”

Brox kicks me awake, ripping off the rope and freeing my arms, I imagine so as to not look suspicious carrying a bound boy from the tent.

The sun peers through the open tent-cloth, and outside clowns and others in costume are bustling about. I dare not ask what time it is, though I wonder. 

“We’re going to town,” he says, taking the cloth from my lips. “All of us. Keep that mouth of yours sealed, or I’ll seal it again myself.” He turns and leaves me alone inside the tent walls. I hear chatter outside, of money and trickery.

Trickery? Was that what I’d fallen for to begin with? 

Of course. The circus is all about trickery. 

Had I simply been naive? 

No. I’d been desperate.

Conflicting thoughts battle in my aching head. 

Idiot, I scold myself. They had never been friends of mine. Only friends of my money.

I should have listened to my father.

“Rune!” Maximon calls my name. “In the carriage!”

I remember his words from last night.

If you know what’s good for you, worthless boy, do not try to run.

Am I going to let them do this? 

Worthless boy.

Was I truly worthless? Had my father believed that? 

Surely, even he’d be more forgiving then le cirque. 

Do not try to run. 

Voice booming in whisper. Fiend wearing the mask of a friend.

Being a son, even a disowned one, is better than being a worthless fool.

A deep breath and I dart out of the tent, past the circus members, who turn to curse and chase me. 

I run as fast as my feet will carry me down the familiar streets of Paris, before my thoughts can catch up with me. 

Wind roars in my ears as I fly down the cobblestone. My legs ache and sweat sticks my clothes to my skin. Time seems a slow and heavy burden, as angry footsteps trail behind my own. Crowds begin to gather, and I struggle to avoid the gossiping strangers. 

Suddenly, my feet betray me and my face bashes the stone road. I let out a cry of pain and fear as blood trickles from my nose into my lips, while the grip on my wrist drags me to the alleyway. 

Brox kicks me in the gut and I begin to sob.

“Idiot!” He yells, the fury in his voice burning like fire. “As long as you are in our possession, you will learn to do as you’re told,” Another blow in the stomach. The blood from my nose begins to trickle down my throat and I choke.

“I warned you, worthless rat!” Maximon exclaims, with a jarring slap across my face.

Le cirque is not at all what I’d imagined.

I should’ve listened to my father.

I should’ve listened. He was right.

“When you are sold, I shall rejoice,” Brox hisses through gritted teeth. 

He raises his fist in the air, and I prepare every body part for a blow. Brox freezes when a voice interrupts. 

“Excuse me, monsieur, you have no right to hit a child.” The voice is low, gentle. Serious, yet forceful. I do not see the bearer’s face, for I am glued to the ground in pain.

“And who might you be, monsieur?” Brox asks with mockable frustration. 

The man pauses for a moment. “I’m interested in buying the boy. I’m in desperate need of an assistant in business, and I overheard that you were willing to sell.”

“Are you willing to pay?”

I shut my eyes, feeling like cattle being bargained off. Why does it matter? I think to myself. 

“I am. Would this suffice?” I hear the jingling of coins in the man’s hands, and a shared laugh between my two captors. 

A beat of silence.

“That’ll do,” Maximon agrees.

 The coins are thrust to their new owners, and I am thrust to mine. I don’t care to look at him; though his firm hands dig into my shoulder blades and lead me away from Brox and Maximon.

When we are far from the alleys, we stop. My body hurts, and so does my pride. 

“Rune.”

The word makes my heart stop.

No one has spoken my name like that in years. 

My new owner’s voice, so gentle and loving. 

So familiar.

When I turn around, I can see it. 

The voice doesn’t belong to a strange owner. It doesn’t belong to a fiend or fake friend.

It belongs to my father. The one who never stopped loving me and never stopped searching for me.

 “Papa!” I scream as I wrap my arms around his neck. “I am so sorry I stole…” I begin to say through tears before he cuts me off. 

 “No son,” through his cracked voice, I can sense his joy. “The money never mattered to me. I love you, son. You are mine, and I will never let you go again.” 

—

“…‘For this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.’”

-Luke 15: 24