Whatever she is, she’s the last one we’ll speak to before going home, said the gentlemanly woman. She shifted her legs and then, like my father used to, cracked her knuckles with a swift flex of her clasped hands, and I had a pang of remembering him.
The giant met my eyes, asking, Did you just arrive here?
I nodded yes.
Flambeau smiled and asked, How’s your aim with a rifle? Are you a good shot? Can you ride a horse?
I again nodded yes to both.
Then you are the one we seek, Flambeau said. The fine lady there is Priscilla of the Cajun Maidens, and this is Ernesto the Giant. We are colleagues together in a traveling show. We are seeking a Pioneer Girl to join us for our European tour, and you, as you look to be a raccoon in boots in that coat, fit the bill. Will you audition for us?
I pulled the coat closer about me, unsure of how to display my offense at these people who, it seemed, could help me.
Priscilla explained the show was leaving in a few days, as soon as the weather turned, for a tour of Italy, Spain, and France, where there was to be a very important performance in Paris. Auditions had turned up too many women trying to get to Paris for the wrong reasons. All were transparently bad with horses, terrified of guns, and unable to sing.
There’s plenty of whores in Paris, Priscilla said. And some of them are a damn good shot. We don’t need to bring any more of those.
Ernesto cast his eyes down, caught my eye, and winked. I can’t believe there’s whores that’s bad with horses, he said, and laughed.
At this, Priscilla rolled her eyes, and Flambeau coughed, laughing.
I only smiled as if I understood, which I would, soon enough.
The circus tent shook with the terrible winds coming in off the sea near the shipyards, as if it were undergoing a violent transformation. I felt the same. I wanted desperately to leave with them. Ernesto gave a courtly, exaggerated bow, as did Priscilla, and they gestured toward the tent in unison, as if we were already performing in a show together. I stepped between them, and we walked to the door.
If she can’t speak, she can’t sing, can she? Ernesto asked Flambeau and Priscilla over the top of my head, as if he thought I couldn’t hear him. I don’t think himself will go for it, he said. He’ll want one that sings. If only she could sing.
And with that, he flung back the tent flap.
The lights from Flambeau’s hair threw sharp shadows against the roof of the tent as we entered. She took my arm and walked me to a very exasperated older man leading a roan gelding that also seemed quite tired. The man rubbed his forehead as he chewed the end of a cigar and gave me a long look.
Et voilà la fille, Flambeau said. She was right outside. I think she was just about to enter.
She winked at me.
Is it me, then, or is she perfect? the circus boss asked, inspecting me as he circled me. He plucked at my coat, and I plucked it back into place.
She’s nearly perfect, Ernesto said. I don’t think she can sing. Or speak, either, for that matter. But she may be as good as we’ll get.
He reached a long arm out to prod me. I stepped forward, toward the manager.
The circus boss pouted as his left eyebrow rose up and stayed there. We can’t teach her a song?
She can’t speak, said Priscilla. She can whisper a bit.
Good heavens, he said, and reached for my coat again. Real coonskins. He held up the coat’s hem. We’ll use it. Come on, he said to me, looking at me sternly. You can’t even sing a little?
I nodded yes. I was sure it was only a moment of the voice being caught at by the cold air.
The boss waved his hands in the air in front of him, as if his own smoke were blowing on him. Fine, fine, if she can ride well, we’ll figure it out. This is the horse, he said. Did they tell you?
I nodded yes.
His name is Mela, he yelled. Though I suppose you can’t say his name. It’s because of how much he likes an apple, though it may be he’s had too many—he hasn’t taken one from any of our applicants yet. Here, he said, and I looked up in time to catch an apple he threw my way. Perhaps you’ll be the one.
The horse was exhausted and a little scared. I went up to him from his right side, tilted my head. He whickered as he saw the apple, and his huge teeth closed over it right as I held it out. He was young and ruddy, the long pale mane and tail beautifully brushed. We liked each other right away. His eyes closed as I ran my hand along his brow and tickled the soft hair at the crest of his neck up behind his ears. I waited until he was done chewing and then blew softly down his nose.
As he chewed at the apple, he started a little under my hands, but with happiness, pushing his nose against my face. I slid my hand down his long neck and then climbed into the saddle. I held out my arms and mimed firing a rifle, and the ringmaster laughed and brought me one in a scabbard I could wear on my back.
The tent had filled with more of the performers, tired, hard faced, waiting to be impressed.
When my brothers and I were lost, we took to standing in the saddle to check the horizon to see where we were. But it was so much fun to do, we were always checking. One time our old bay became impatient and began walking while my brother was still standing, and as we laughed, he stayed standing up and gradually got the horse to a canter. This became our new favorite trick, and so, of course, we soon learned to race at it, our mother usually catching us and screaming in fear.
I gave my new audience a long look as they watched expectantly and then reined Mela back so he reared as I swung him into the track of the ring. We started off at a run. My audience screamed with laughter and I felt it please the horse.
After three laps to get him warm to me and to figure out his timing, I swung in the saddle, rolling onto my back, my legs up as I did a half circle, sitting down again backward.
I heard a cheer and waved to the crowd.
He was a good circus horse and kept steady on his pace. I would later miss him, but for now, I rolled myself back around to face front again. I did it once more and then prepared for the real trick, the one I was sure they’d like.
I did not know how to understand the way life was lived here, but this much I knew.
My eyes moved to Ernesto, who was nodding with pride as if we were already friends.
I took one foot and lifted it slightly up Mela’s reddish sides, then the other, until my feet balanced, knees bent, on either side of the center of the horse’s back. My audience cheered. I lifted one hand in the air in a salute and then whipped off my hat, shaking my hair loose. Then I pulled the reins in and drew the horse to a stop in a sawdust cloud. From my place on his back I turned to face them.
They were silent as they watched me, except Flambeau, who still clapped sharp, barking claps.
I steadied myself and raised my arm in a salute. I needed them to feed me, to take me with them. I needed to get to Europe. If they did not take me, I was not sure what there was for me.
I cleared my throat and found my voice then, like a coin suddenly in your pocket that’d been missing when last you looked for it. Ernesto’s eyes went wide with surprise, almost as wide as mine.
The song was, in fact, the one song my mother had taught me that wasn’t a hymn. This was true. I chose it that night as I was homesick and missing her, so it seemed right to sing it now.
Rose, Rose, Rose, Red.
When will I see thee wed?
I will wed at thy will, sire,
At thy will.
Rose, Rose, Rose, Red.
When will I see thee wed?
I will wed as I will, sire,
As I will.
I’d fiddled with the lyrics, and I guess they knew, for they laughed at my second verse.
I sang it slowly and clearly, steadily stronger, thrilling to the moment. I then sang it again, continuing, repeating it until the other performers joined in the round. Soon they were dancing with each other, and I held my hand out to Ernesto, who came to where I stood on the back of the horse, finally taking my hand and holding it up in the air. Standing on that horse, I was only a little taller than he was. As I finished the lyric that time, he lifted me off and held me there.