The Butterfly Circus Read online

  To my sister Selina, for making that

  first special place for me to write.

  Contents

  1 Chrysalis to Butterfly

  2 Butterfly to Bug

  3 Lost

  4 And Found

  5 The Shadow

  6 Sanctuary’s Grand Station

  7 Les éléphants intelligents

  8 Funicular

  9 Circo Fanque

  10 Spectacles and Surprises

  11 Pickingill’s Marvellous Mechanical Machines

  12 Pickingill’s Parade

  13 The Trap Room

  14 Pickingill’s Dream

  15 Dress Rehearsals

  16 Cloud Swings

  17 Bullseye

  18 Revenge

  19 Untangling Memories

  20 Hellos and Goodbyes

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Chrysalis to Butterfly

  I reach the top first. Belle’s getting slower. To see her limbs, like a daddy-long-legs, you’d think she’d find climbing easy, but in this game being short has its advantages; I always beat her to the top.

  It’s bat-black up here and there’s nothing to see. I don’t need my glasses for getting up the corde lisse – I could do that in my sleep. But I put them on now, tie them tight and glance down. Thirty feet below, the circus ring gleams silver. The sawdust is mixed with mother of pearl shavings to make it glow in the dark; that way Belle and I can just about see when the lights go down. Mrs Fratellini doesn’t want the audience to spot us climbing. She’s the ring mistress. What she says goes.

  “It’s all about de illusion! Tansy! Belle! You are de actual butterflies of de Butterfly Circus,” she often coos. “Butterflies don’t climb like de crawly-creepies. You arrive in de darkness. De lights go up! De audience dee-scoover you high above dem! As eef by magic! You are be-ootiful, gleettering!” She clasps her powdered face with her bejewelled hands and gets a little teary at the wonder of it all. “If only my darrrling Alfredo could see you now. How proud he’d be!”

  We are the last act; Silks and Flying Trapeze. Our silks are dyed deepest emerald to palest lime and drape to the ground below. They are leaves for us to be caterpillars on. Then we’ll be chrysalises before evolving into butterflies. Our act is what everyone really wants to see. Not just because we’re the best thing Mrs Fratellini has ever seen, or the best thing anyone has ever seen on the Isle of Gala, but because of the safety net. Or lack of one. There’s applause when we land, but the near misses get the biggest gasps.

  “A net?” Mrs Fratellini once asked, her beady eyes squinting as she thought about it. “Nets are for catching de butterflies. My two butterflies flutter free!”

  “Free to break our necks you mean,” Belle had muttered. She was only seven then and we hadn’t been at the circus long. It’s hard to believe there was a time when Belle didn’t realise how lucky we are that the Fratellinis found us and put a canvas over our heads. Now, she never stops telling me how we must be “the best of the best” to earn our place here, or else risk ending up in Scoria. And in case we forget, every Found Day when Belle and I blow out our candles as the troupe finish singing, Mrs Fratellini wipes away a tear saying, “To fink, if my dear Alfredo hadn’t found you, you could have been got by de wolves!”

  She doesn’t mean real wolves, although plenty of those roam the old forests of Gala, where we were found. She means the showmen who run the freak shows, where you can pay a single florin to see a pig with two heads, a swan with red feathers or a man covered with fur. Even if you’re not a freak, the showmen have ways of turning you into one. But the Butterfly Circus isn’t like those stick-and-rag shows. It might not be the biggest, but of all the circuses on Gala it’s the most famous; maybe the most famous show on any of the Pleasure Isles, the five biggest islands of the archipelago. That’s why the Mainlanders flock here.

  The clowns are about to come on. The darkness around the ring twinkles with the Glowbells we sell; glass balls no bigger than a walnut, filled with phosphorescent beads that splash coloured light when you shake them. I tighten my wrist wraps and check that I’ve got enough rosin on my palms to help me grip. It’s made from pine sap and smells like a forest at midnight. It reminds me of something, but the memory scampers away before I can catch it.

  Suddenly, the circus ring is bathed in light. Children screech as Boris and Doris tumble in, wearing red enamel wings with black dots. They are the carpet clowns who keep the audience bent double with laughter in order to stop them looking up; that way Belle and I can check the ropes unobserved. Their act is simple. Naughty Doris torments Boris, who’s stupid. I’ve seen them a million times so I know what’s happening without watching. Doris sets fire to Boris and a plume of black smoke shoots out of Boris’s bottom. I lean out to look. Sure as eggs is eggs, Doris is wafting a huge peacock feather fan by Boris’s bottom and the children in the audience are laughing hysterically. Soon, Boris will run in circles, trying to outrun the fire, then Doris will chuck a pail of water over Boris. It’ll go wrong and Doris will get the soaking.

  There’s a gentle thud on the opposite pedestal. Belle’s there. I can just about make out her silhouette against the blackness of the tent’s cupola. Even though my eyes are not the best, I have a knack for sensing her. I worry when I hear her wheezing; the climb’s tough for her. I imagine her breath as a sooty little moth fluttering across the dark to find me. She rubs some more rosin between her hands, then whistles two low notes to let me know she’s ready. The orchestra strikes up as Boris and Doris somersault out. The spotlight cuts and we’re plunged into darkness again. We’re on. Any second now.

  My heart’s somersaulting too and my muscles twitch. I’m so excited even my butterflies have butterflies. Here comes the drum roll. The two spotlights go up, hovering between us in the space we call the Hemisphere. Tiny specks of dust swirl in the beams, like a miniature Milky Way. It’s so beautiful that I still catch my breath even though I’ve seen it a thousand times. Then the lights sweep left to find me, making the pink sequins on my costume sparkle.

  The second the spotlights land on me I grow many shadows, and together we take a low bow to the deafening applause. But by the time we lift our heads again, the spotlights have flounced off to find Belle, leaving me shadow-less and alone in the dark. Under its cover I quickly pull the silks downwards, testing their tension, getting a sense of them, their feel, as though they’re a living creature. In the meantime, the spotlights find Belle. Her costume is embroidered with sapphire sequins, and silver stars twinkle in her curly black hair, twisted in the same way as mine into two pointy coils to look like antennae. Belle says I’m her little candle because I’m so white and my hair’s the colour of flame. Really my hair’s orange, not bright like a robin’s breast – more stale egg yolk actually – but “flame” sounds nicer.

  During practice Belle says, “Trust me and jump!” but in performance, we have a secret code: she always blows me a kiss before we start. It’s barely airborne before she snatches it back with a wink. It’s our ritual, our good luck charm; the very last thing we do before we fly. She’ll give me that kiss for real when we’re back in the dressing room, picking glitter out of our hair.

  Except when I collect my kiss tonight I will have really earned it; because I’ve got a surprise for her, for everyone. Something very special.

  It’s time. Belle reaches up for the silks and I do the same, my eyebrows scrunched with concentration. Timing is everything. We mirror each other, as if we’re the other’s shadow. Belle pulls herself up and her biceps ripple. She makes a foot-lock, hooking her leg around the fabric and then, with her other foot, wraps the cloth over to make a stirrup.

&nb
sp; Synchronised, we slink upwards, then, when we can climb no higher, we pinch the silks between our legs and let our bodies drop forwards. Weaving one arm through the silks, we brace our backs against the cloth and do the splits, extending our arms. For a moment we are suspended, as if frozen mid-leap, the silks fanning out from our feet. The crowd gasp.

  We start to twirl, gently at first, like sycamore seeds and then we slide down, our silks fluttering. As we whirl faster, the silks wrap around us until we’re completely cocooned. We wait for a few seconds, then we tumble out and tug two ribbons at the back of our costumes. In a haze of violet gauze, we sprout butterfly wings speckled with chips of turquoise abalone shell. We dangle for a moment as applause floods the tent. Now that we’re butterflies, we grab our trapeze bars for our first trick: a double layout.

  Belle hooks her legs over the bar and drops backwards, her strong arms sweeping in deep, graceful arcs. She is my catcher. I’m the flyer; the real star of the show. I grip the bar and drop backwards too, curling my knees close to my chest and then under the bar. I cast out, swinging my feet up into the highest point of the Hemisphere. When the trapeze completes its return sweep, I beat back a second, then throw my legs up in front of me as hard as I can. I repeat the swing and beat back once more, before letting my legs fly forwards. Their momentum is so strong I’m pulled after them until I’m upside down. It’s perfect.

  Trust me and jump!

  I let go of my bar and fly. It’s what I do night after night, but each time it’s the most beautiful, most terrifying thing. I’m flying fifty feet in the air, spinning in a blaze of colour with nothing but make-believe wings of net and sparkling shell. I complete two perfect somersaults, then I swoop down towards Belle, who is rising up to meet me. She plucks me from my flight and delivers me safely to the board. I land in a cloud of chalk, like I’ve jumped in fresh snow.

  That’s what’s meant to happen.

  But this time, as I start to fly, I begin a triple somersault. I know I can do it; I know I can earn that kiss, that rapturous applause. I have the height and speed to get one more turn before she catches me. Timing is everything. But as I start the third turn, I see Belle’s trapeze is already swinging away. I still reach for her outstretched hands, even though I know she can’t possibly catch me. Belle screams my name as I scream hers and our fingertips brush. I’m still spinning and dropping with sickening speed. Faster and faster, so fast even the spotlights can’t keep up. I’m lost in the dark; alone and falling.

  A few seconds before I hit the ground, something cold and soft swipes against my palm. I grab it and my arm is wrenched back with a snap, but nothing can stop my descent. My last thought is I’m going to…

  2

  Butterfly to Bug

  But I didn’t.

  When I opened my eyes, three days later, the first person I saw was Belle, crumpled as an autumn leaf, asleep on the floor of the little bow-topped wagon we share. Her face was puffy and tears had etched through her white stage make-up. She was still wearing her sequinned costume and a few stars glimmered dimly in her matted hair. She’d clapped her hands together and tucked them under her cheek for a pillow.

  Belle must have sensed I’d woken because her eyes pinged open and, without a word, she climbed up the steps into our wooden box-bed and held me. After what felt like ages of teardrops splatting on my head, she shuffled down the bed so we were face-to-face.

  “That was so stupid, Tansy. You could have died!” she said, her eyes blazing. She choked back a sob, then climbed back down and left, slamming the wagon door furiously behind her.

  “A mee-raculous eescape!” Mrs Fratellini shrieked when she heard I’d come round. She rushed to my bedside, her eyes all smudgy, like when you rub something out with an old rubber.

  She put the ripped silks on display with the words MIRACULOUS ESCAPE painted on a board, which Boris helped her write. Clowns are often the smartest; you have to be clever to act so stupid. She thought it’d thrill the customers to see that I had clung on and torn a giant hole in the fabric. Now, whenever I pass, I stroke the frayed edges with my fingertips and wonder at the strangeness of it. The silks saved me, yet I can’t remember holding on to them.

  When I realised I’d never fly again, I told Belle I wished I’d died. Belle said she’d kill me if I ever said that again, but that’s because she couldn’t understand how much I love flying. Once, when I was little, she made me a kaleidoscope; I played with it for hours, making endless stained-glass snowflakes and wishing I could live in its world. But one day curiosity got the better of me and I took it apart, until all I had in my hands was cardboard and mirror and beads. Belle taped it up, but it was never the same; one by one all the beads fell out, until all that was left was an empty circle of reflected nothingness. Flying trapeze was like living in that kaleidoscope before I broke it; before I broke me.

  But I did mend. Mostly, although I couldn’t fully raise my arm. It’s been three years since I fell; time for my bones to knit back. It takes more than a strong body to fly though; you need courage too and the truth is, mine’s shattered for ever. That’s my secret. About a year ago, I was hanging out the washing and I suddenly realised my arm worked fine; it was as good as new. But I’m terrified of heights and I can’t admit that. Instead, I let everyone carry on thinking my arm never got better. I really want to tell Belle, but there never seems to be the right moment to say I’m a scaredy-cat, especially when she’s so fearless.

  Now that my flying days are behind me, I earn my place here by washing and fixing Belle’s costumes or selling stuff to punters, and I’m pretty sure Mrs Fratellini only keeps me on because Belle’s their biggest star. But even though I’m a nobody, I’m always busy; there’s always someone giving me something to scrub, stir, stitch, sweep or shovel up, so I try to keep out of sight, in our bed, reading or sewing. I spend so much time here in bed that I’ve got myself a new name…

  “Bug!”

  It’s Spinnet. I jump up, dropping my book and scattering peanuts. I clamber down the ladder, stuff my feet in my boots and glance at the watch dangling off the bed-end. It’s late; half past eight. I check my fingernails are clean, put my coat on and tie my sweet-baskets around my waist. They’re made of wood, so even empty they’re like carrying bricks and the ties are too tight. I lock the wagon and scurry down the steps.

  It’s twilight and the air is fuzzy with woodsmoke. The sky is deepest violet and a few stars are already twinkling. I hurry through the camp, dodging tent pegs and jumping over piles of steaming dung. Horses whinny and spicy scents prickle in my nose, making my mouth water. I stop by a pot bubbling on a fire, but before I can breathe its scent, I hear Spinnet yelling again. She makes butterscotch and raspberry drops, as well as ice cream for the penny licks. Her tent is next to the big top so that the sweet aromas waft towards the queues and advertise my wares. I tumble in just as she’s opening her mouth to yell again. When she sees me, she clamps it shut until her lips pinch into a thin, hard line.

  “The punters are inside already!” she hisses, hammering a slab of butterscotch. A splinter skitters my way and I sneak it into my mouth.

  “I was mending Belle’s wings,” I mumble. Spinnet tuts and loops the Glowbells on the arm I call “my good arm”.

  “Anyone can sell. It’s not like it takes a special talent,” she snaps. “You should remember how lucky you are!”

  I wish people would stop saying that. I know how lucky I am. I only broke my clavicle, ulna, radius, patella, fibula, ankle, two ribs, a thumb and a tiny bone called a trapezium, which I was excited about because I thought it was special to me, until Belle told me that everyone has one in their wrist. Spinnet piles butterscotch into my baskets, glancing at the ties pinching my waist.

  “Are they a bit tight?” Her voice is treacly with fake sympathy. I count a beat; I know what’s coming. “Well … that’s what you get for showing off!” Spinnet always tries to needle me about my biggest mistake, but when I don’t reply, she sniffs and starts pa
cking gooseberry ice cream into the penny licks.

  Spinnet used to perform with the silks, but when Mr Fratellini reinvented his circus with an insect theme, he gave her slot to Belle and me. Now, when she’s not making sweets, she’s a funambulist – a tightrope walker – and a good one, tottering across the high wire dressed as a Black Widow spider, her costume stuffed for a pot-bellied spidery look. She prides herself on being as skinny as a burnt match, but no one would know under all that padding. I’m sure that’s why she’s always in a bad mood.

  “I counted them!” she warns, as she loads the ice cream on my tray and loops the straps over my head. I can only nod; my teeth are glued together with butterscotch.

  I pull my hood up and go outside. Spinnet’s right; only a few stragglers are waiting to go in, and by the looks of their Sunday-best clothes, they all bought cheap tickets. I doubt they could scrape together enough soldas for a single bag of butterscotch, but I give it a go anyway. I shake my arm, making teardrops of light trickle from my Glowbells.

  “Glowbells!” I cry. “Penny licks!”

  Not a single punter looks my way. I decide to try my luck inside the main tent and as I edge past, a little boy tugs his mum’s sleeve. She catches my eye but quickly looks away; she’s got no money for treats. The Mainlanders visit Gala not just for its dozens of circuses, but also for its clean air; for a healthy break from Scoria’s factories and the black smog that blots out the sun. But it comes at a high price, and not only for the mum’s purse; her skin has a raw, pink look to it and she reeks of carbolic soap. They are very strict about hygiene at the Pleasure Isle ports. She must have had to scrub and scrub to get herself clean enough for Gala. The little boy has the same polished look but the dad’s different; the bad air of Scoria is so ingrained in him that even the whites of his eyes are stained with splodges of reddish-brown, like chaffinch eggs. I feel sorry for them, living in that filth, breathing coal-ash instead of air. The little boy tugs her sleeve again, so as I pass I pretend to trip. A bag of butterscotch hops out of one of my baskets and lands by his feet.