The
tiger paces the ring, waiting for the Ringmaster to enter. The paws move, one forward, then another,
forward, slowing, silently, creeping in a never-ending circle, around and
around the center platform of boxes, the tiger paces.
Where is he? I know
he’s coming. He always does. He waits for me, as I wait for him.
The
tiger is patient.
I hear a creaking sound.
The
sound is familiar. A shuffling sound,
another follows.
I turn. My head jerks
up. I stand still. I wait.
I watch.
More
sounds echo within the empty room.
The crunch under foot, nearing; nearer, while I wait, with
legs that tremble with anticipation.
Another
door opens.
I back away, perceiving this the final door, before he
enters. I back away. I stiffen my legs
to keep them still. I watch the door as
it opens.
There
he stands, tall and straight. A black
cape hangs loosely from his thin shoulders.
The right hand contains a long black whip, a leather strap dangling from
its tip, to be held back by one little finger.
He makes contact with my eyes. We stare, motionless, neither of us
flinching.
The
Ringmaster reaches his left hand behind his back, closing the door, latching
it. The air is dense, close.
He takes five steps towards me, then stops. He holds my glare. He knows this look of mine, as I know his
every thought that comes across the air.
He knows I will not move until he moves.
He knows this. He knows me. He takes another forward step, and I step
back two.
The
Ringmaster starts to circle around the platform in the center of the ring. He raises his arms, the whip bends, as his
wrist dictates a single wave of motion. Swinging
the loose leather tip around in the air above his head, releasing harsh
cracking currents of atmosphere, comes near the tiger’s ear.
I step forward one step; he backs away two.
The
whip cracks in mid air; one, two, three times.
I jump to the first level.
He cracks the heavens, and I jump, again. Again, and again, he repeats his
signals.
I leap to the uppermost box and stand motionless. I wait on
the platform. I am ready. His eyes and mine, never leave the solid line that
connects one to the other. He knows I
will stand there until he signals me, up, up.
He signals, not with the whip, but with the nod of his head.
I rise to my full height, clawing the air to keep balance.
He is the director, the conductor, the leader. He is the
master musician, the Ringmaster, who leads me around and around. I am the tiger
that leaps and bounds, and watches, and listens, heeding his every wish.
The
Ringmaster throws his whip-clutched fist towards the ground, the leather tip
raising a cloud of dust into the air.
I jump down and fall in front of his feet. My legs stretch to meet his. He bends forward, reaching out to stroke my
head. I lower in submission, sawdust
scratching my belly. He strokes me.
The
master. The beast.
I wait. I am still.
The controller of my destinies, in the tone of his voice, as he coos me, and
lulls me, and persuades me to move at his next command.
The
Ringmaster turns and walks away.
I rise, without command, and walk along side his leg. I brush against it, warning of my power.
Feeling my strength, he knows me with intimacy. Showing equality, side by side
we walk together over thresholds.
Boundaries
are set, as the lock on the cage door is opened. The Ringmaster enters. He closes the door. A chair is in the middle of the cage. His
arms sag. He drops the whip at his feet.
He sits to wait for sleep, closing his eyes, allowing his body to go
slack.
I do not enter this cage, but walk to the far corner of the
room. I will wait. We will sleep, the Ringmaster and I. Around and around in a dream we will pace,
repeating our day’s refrain.
