Conjured

I am on the dirt floor of the carnival tent, in a row of feet and legs. Around me, above me, hands are clapping for a performance that I didn’t hear or see. Up farther, faces are smeared with white paint and rose circles. Garish eyes are painted on foreheads and necks and chests. I can’t see the stage. It is shrouded in smoke, my smoke, that billows and puffs into a snake, a dragon, a cat, a hand … But I am outside the smoke, between strangers, and I do not feel safe anymore.

Pushing past the legs and climbing over the feet, I squeeze down the row until I reach the aisle. At last, I can see the stage. It is draped in red velvet and lit by candles that line the edge.

A cello plays slowly.

The Magician pushes a box onstage. It is larger than those in the wagon, but it is undeniably the same. I recognize its gilded edges and the silver clasp. Staring at it, I feel my rib cage shrink inside me. It’s hard to breathe, and the smoke-laden air scratches my throat.

A girl with many arms scuttles onto the stage, pushing a freestanding silver mirror with two of her arms and using her other arms as extra legs. She positions the mirror behind the Magician, and then disappears back into the smoke.

Looking around, I see a break in the tent at the back of the audience. I walk toward it, away from the stage and the Magician and the box.

I hear a gasp, then whispers.

Hands point to the stage, but I do not look, will not look. I walk toward the exit, faster, but it seems farther away with each step.

At last I reach it and push aside the curtain. And face a silver wall.

In the silver, I see a reflection of the stage behind me. The Magician has opened the box. He is looking over the audience at me, or at the silver wall. In the mirror, a boy with white-yellow hair and thin eyes stares out at me.

I look over my shoulder … but there’s no boy. I am the boy.

I look back at the silver, and now I am a taller boy with leopard-spot tattoos on my neck. Leather straps cross my chest, and a sword is strapped to my back. I reach back to touch it, and the hand of the boy in the mirror reaches in sync with me. The reflection touches the sword, but I feel nothing. I look for the sword—and this time when I look back at the silver, I am a girl with feathers in my hair and glittering scales on my arms.

I reach to touch the reflection—and melt into it. Cold slices through me as I walk forward. Light pricks my eyes. I block my eyes with my arm and squint until my eyes adjust to the stabs of light.