Kurt sat in the back of a wagon, swinging his feet from the edge, watching the scenery go by. He couldn't wait to see the next town. He loved the circus life; popping in, delighting people, and moving on.
Soon they arrived in a small town in Eastern Europe. His friends began pitching tents, and he ran off to explore the grounds before they became crowded with strangers. As long as he was performing, he was safe. The audience wondered how he flew so gracefully, how he did it in that ridiculous costume, how he supported himself with that fake tail. But it was his right as a performer to keep secrets. His public was content with the magic and mystery. Outside the tent, it was a different world. If he ever made the mistake of showing his face out there, merciless tail-pulling would follow as curious circus-goers tried to remove his costume. It never ended well.
But this morning, the grounds were his. Kurt scrambled up a tree to look out over the surrounding fields.
"Kurt!" called a familiar voice from below. It was one of his troupe-mates. "Practice time."
There was nothing he loved more. Kurt was out of the tree in seconds, racing for the big tent. His friends knew him, didn't care if he laughed, shouted, and improvised. Which he did with wild abandon.
Eventually they made him get down so they could set up for that afternoon's performance. As Kurt wandered out of the tent, he heard two men talking around the corner, and crouched down to listen.
"The boy is our star!" said a voice Kurt recognized as the circus owner. "You can't have him."
"Boy?" said an unfamiliar voice in surprise.
"The lad is no more than seven."
"Seven!" was the incredulous reply. "In all his life, the General has seen no one give such a show."
Why did this man refer to himself in the third person? Kurt's mother had broken him of that habit long ago. He would have thought this man very stupid, if Mama had not also taught him to look for the good in people.
"He is talented, indeed." Kurt swelled at the praise from the owner.
"Why the costume, though?"
"It is no costume."
"If it is no costume, the boy is a fr-"
"Sir!" interrupted the owner. "We do not call him that. Here, we judge him only by his talent."
A funny noise from the General. "I must have this boy for my circus."
"He is happy here, and here he shall stay," the owner insisted.
"You will regret this," the General said as he stomped off.
**********
That afternoon, Kurt gave the performance of a lifetime, just for the owner. He was not interested in the wild cheering of the audience. He only wanted to be sure of staying with the company he loved.
As he snuck out the back of the tent, someone grabbed him around the middle like a sack of peanuts. He struggled, but his attacker was too strong.
"Now you belong to the General," a voice growled in his ear.
That was the last he saw of his friends and family for a long time.
**********
Jean took her hands away. Her head was reeling. She had to put Kurt back into his own head. Maybe then the memories would go away...
Soon they arrived in a small town in Eastern Europe. His friends began pitching tents, and he ran off to explore the grounds before they became crowded with strangers. As long as he was performing, he was safe. The audience wondered how he flew so gracefully, how he did it in that ridiculous costume, how he supported himself with that fake tail. But it was his right as a performer to keep secrets. His public was content with the magic and mystery. Outside the tent, it was a different world. If he ever made the mistake of showing his face out there, merciless tail-pulling would follow as curious circus-goers tried to remove his costume. It never ended well.
But this morning, the grounds were his. Kurt scrambled up a tree to look out over the surrounding fields.
"Kurt!" called a familiar voice from below. It was one of his troupe-mates. "Practice time."
There was nothing he loved more. Kurt was out of the tree in seconds, racing for the big tent. His friends knew him, didn't care if he laughed, shouted, and improvised. Which he did with wild abandon.
Eventually they made him get down so they could set up for that afternoon's performance. As Kurt wandered out of the tent, he heard two men talking around the corner, and crouched down to listen.
"The boy is our star!" said a voice Kurt recognized as the circus owner. "You can't have him."
"Boy?" said an unfamiliar voice in surprise.
"The lad is no more than seven."
"Seven!" was the incredulous reply. "In all his life, the General has seen no one give such a show."
Why did this man refer to himself in the third person? Kurt's mother had broken him of that habit long ago. He would have thought this man very stupid, if Mama had not also taught him to look for the good in people.
"He is talented, indeed." Kurt swelled at the praise from the owner.
"Why the costume, though?"
"It is no costume."
"If it is no costume, the boy is a fr-"
"Sir!" interrupted the owner. "We do not call him that. Here, we judge him only by his talent."
A funny noise from the General. "I must have this boy for my circus."
"He is happy here, and here he shall stay," the owner insisted.
"You will regret this," the General said as he stomped off.
**********
That afternoon, Kurt gave the performance of a lifetime, just for the owner. He was not interested in the wild cheering of the audience. He only wanted to be sure of staying with the company he loved.
As he snuck out the back of the tent, someone grabbed him around the middle like a sack of peanuts. He struggled, but his attacker was too strong.
"Now you belong to the General," a voice growled in his ear.
That was the last he saw of his friends and family for a long time.
**********
Jean took her hands away. Her head was reeling. She had to put Kurt back into his own head. Maybe then the memories would go away...