I chuckle and shake my head. “Maybe she’ll wave at you during the performance.”
“Yeah. Yeah.Definitely.”
He settles in, drinking his beer like he’s dying of thirst. I’m grateful when the music stops, the lights dim, and a spotlight shines on a man who seems to have materialized at the center of the tent. He’s wearing a purple suit, a plastic smile, and all the confidence a man like him can steal.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls.”His voice booms, seemingly without a microphone.“Who’s ready for a show unlike any other? A performance that defies reason? A dazzling night of skill, talent, and courageousness that you won’t soon forget!?”
He gets his hooks in the crowd quickly. Even the guy next to me cheers when appropriate.
I clap politely.
Charles, the man in the purple suit who introduces himself as the proprietor of tonight’s cast of talented individuals, is a fast-talker if I’ve ever heard one. That’s the type of man who can talk money out of your wallet while putting a smile on your face.
Once he’s got the crowd worked up, the first act begins with zero introduction. Two slender young men run out from the bleachers, shirtless and sweating as they wield torches burstingwith fire. It’s an explosive start. The two men—who look to be twins—blow fire at the four sections of bleachers, pulling gasps from the crowd followed by uproarious applause. But they don’t stick to it for long. Before the fireballs can grow stale, they light dozens of torches to illuminate the rest of their act, which involves medieval-style body piercings that nearly make the man next to me nauseous before his inevitable hangover.
Impressive, but I’d skip it if it meant I could see Sam’s act a moment sooner.
The show rolls on.
Three clowns enact their rendition ofRomeo and Juliet, in which the third clown portrays the poison who just wishes the two lovers would grow up and communicate like adults; A spacey, light-footed magician does card tricks, stuns crowd members by reading facts about them simply from their gazes (and I’m sure some scouting before the show), and manages to levitate a few feet off the ground; There’s a band nailing requests from the audience—the cowboy next to me is furious when they ignore his request for an uncouth country song; A woman nearly my size who picks out audience members and reps them in impressively clean military presses; And a comedian who actually works in a joke about our chili cook-off and the circus losing their main event from choking fatally on a pinto bean.
It’s an entertaining show. Silly, perhaps, but fun. I can see why people would choose it for a night out with their family.
But I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.
The Valkyrie.
Finally, a stampede of drums as deep as my voice starts to roll like encroaching thunder. Charles paces the perimeter of the arena, dipping in and out of the bleachers as black curtains are lowered, blocking our view. I sense movement inside as he distracts the crowd.
“The Valkyrie, legendary, beautiful warriors of Norse tales, those who guide the souls of the dead to Valhalla. Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, we host one of the royal daughters of Odin… a creature so delicate yet powerful that I ask you to hold your applause so as to not frighten her from our mortal realm… For she may unleash her wrath upon us if she’s startled, and not even Hilda the Giantess could vanquish this mystical creature…”
Not bad. Not exactly correct (daughters of Odin is a stretch, among other things), but better than I’d expect from a carnival conman. Suddenly, his voice drops so low that I struggle to hear him.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, bear witness… and be amazed.”
The curtains fall.
Voids of black are conquered by glorious golden light. The rays seem to reflect and duel one another, criss-crossing metal beams and towers that were hastily assembled during Charles’s distraction.
Little gasps burst in the crowd like popcorn, rolling over one another until everyone is looking at the same thing: the Valkyrie, dressed in a black unitard with one missing sleeve, black hair done into a long ponytail so taut that it could be used as a weapon, standing atop the highest metal tower and posing like a bird about to take flight.
The raven staring down at us all.
She leaps, and my heart stops.
I nearly jump from my seat in an attempt to catch her; I never would have made it, of course, and the crowd sighs in relief with me as she grips a swing and flies from one end of the tent to the other. Her leg hooks over the bar, allowing her to contort and wave her hand over the crowd as she flies by like a blackbird. Without a net, the move is death-defying.
The cowboy next to me laughs, jeers, and yells some obscenity far too loudly for my liking. Without thinking, I grab him by the back of the neck and growl, “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
He nods frantically. “Sure, man. Right on. All you had to say…”
I release him, leaning my elbows on my knees as I watch Sam intently. The crowd respects the request for no applause or flash photography. How could they focus on anything buther? Every jump, grab, and flip feels more dangerous, more daring than the last. She demands our attention, our respect, our reverence…
Finally, the aerial portion of her act comes to an end. For all I know, she’s been up there for hours hypnotizing me with the point of her toes.
I remember to breathe.
A soft violin cuts through the hush of the crowd. Only now do I realize that the first part of her performance lacked music. They let her soar above us like some creature in the night, accompanied only by our stunned breaths.
