Claws and Feathers

Quiet music played as the mist cleared, a single tinny note hanging in the air. Marguerite turned a mechanical swallow over in her hands, wondering at the irony of its name. Birdsong twittered behind her. She released the bird, letting it fly overhead to signal Eric, the lion tamer, to begin.

As the brassy avian clinked around the ring, Eric crawled on stage in the shadows. His lions, two female and one male, followed in the main stage, growling. Their shoulders rippled with each step, tails settled behind them, ears perked. The audience was quiet. Marguerite could tell the beasts watched Eric closely, but the audience did not see him. The lions loped onto the platforms rising in the middle of the ring, and the tinny whistle and birdsong grew into a fanfare when Eric rose from the shadows, sitting calmly in front of his pets.

“I hope your birds can fly high, Auréle. I think my cats are hungry,” Eric said. The ringmaster swung down from her perch above to retrieve the mechanical swallow, shaking her whip at him before hiding again. The audience laughed, and then stopped when Eric rolled from his sitting position. The lions leapt after him.

The music followed in a hunting bugle, cut with sharp, tribal drumbeats. Eric stood just as suddenly as he rolled and the lions reared onto their haunches, paws waving in the air, their mouths gaping. He continued his act, at some points pretending each lion was nothing more than a housecat. The lions rolled, reared, and roared through the ring. At one point they ran close enough to the audience that, had they dared, the front row could reach out and touch them.

Once the promenade ended, Eric settled the lions on their own stands. The females on either side opened their mouths, their lips pulling back over curved teeth. Eric stepped up to the first one, passing his hands between the lioness’s jaws. She closed her mouth playfully a few times. Eric mimed a struggle. The audience seemed torn between laughter and terror when he retrieved his arm and sent the lioness backstage. Eric signaled, and the second lioness stepped down from her pedestal, crouching. He edged towards her, the music reducing to a trembling note of suspense. The lioness growled. Eric jumped back. He approached her again, with similar results. Placing his hands on his hips, Eric stomped forward and growled. The lioness reared, placing her paws on his shoulders. Eric let out a shrill scream, but the lioness licked his cheek. After nervous laughter, a waltz began to play. Eric and the lioness danced before he sent her backstage as well.

At last, Eric approached the male lion. He extended his hand. The lion rolled onto its back, as though sleeping. Eric threw his hands up in frustration, and the lion mewled. Once the laughter quieted, Eric clapped his hands. The lion returned to his pedestal, jaws opening. Eric passed his hands over its tongue, and then slowly inserted his head. The lion stood patiently while the audience clapped. Eric held one hand in the air, the other in the lion’s fur. He removed his head when birdsong reappeared.

Auréle descended with the swallow perched on her hand. When she hung halfway between ground and gears, a flock of songbirds lead by more mechanical swallows poured over the audience. They fanned from the center of the ring and circled back to the ground, where they gathered around a lanky man in a tight fitting, sparkly suit. His sleeves flared into magnificent, feathery cuffs that fluttered behind him while he walked forward. The lion and tamer were nowhere to be found.

Auréle said, “May I present the glorious plumage of our Avian Master, whose song will enchant you this evening. Anselme, do keep my precious little birds safe, will you?”

The brass birds settled their flocks around the ring. Behind Anselme, a peacock spread its tail feathers, its remarkable cue followed by Anselme’s tenor voice. He began with a country song, light and airy. Two of the mechanical birds danced to the tune, their wings clacking like little cymbals in the ring. At the song’s peak, they took the air, the other birds in their wake. They flew in a spiral to the top of the tent, nearly brushing the underbelly of the main airship. The gears spun to meet them, clicking and clanking. Anselme’s platform rose into the air, bringing him to his birds, then tilted over the audience. His voice quieted, and in its place the instruments picked up the melody.

“A pretty tune, don’t you think?” He called to the audience. They applauded, and the birds dove over their heads. Three peacocks strutted about the ring, their own cries overwhelmed by the songbirds and musicians. A trumpet heralded as the machinations continued to work their way from the ship’s hull, as though its gut were sliced open, spilling the contents in the height of the circus ring. But patterns formed from the otherwise chaotic mess of oversized gadgetry. Pipes extended from the ring’s floor to the tent’s top, and a keyboard sat before Anselme. His platform connected with it, and he proceeded to play the tune on the newly formed pipe organ suspended in the air. Birds and music surrounded the audience, another mist growing from backstage.

Marguerite smiled at the contraption. It was one of her favorite elaborate designs of the main airship, a beautiful instrument that bore the rosette underneath its platform. But Anselme’s act was coming to an end. He reached his next to last fermata, a dramatic chord held until Marguerite summoned the brass birds back to their places, and their feathered followers back to their cages.

“Let Hirondelle burn what they wish,” she said under her breath. “We’ve more fire than they could ever know what to do with.”

Anselme’s song came to an end, and so did Marguerite’s post backstage until the end of the night.