Interlude One: The First Scar
The first scar came of its own accord. I was running through Der Jermarkt's camp - running away from my step-brother Stefan. I had eaten his last bit of taffy, and he was furious.
I had denied it, lying with the remnants of the candy still stuck to my back teeth. And then I ran, with Stefan on my heels. I ran until my side ached; twisting around startled performers and in and out of tents and between wagons.
We ran until he was no longer angry, or I afraid. Now, we were laughing as we ran for the sheer joy of movement and the discovery of a new game.
The pain, when it came, was brilliant. I hadn't seen the guy wire in my eight-year-old's ecstasy. Powered by my speed on impact, it tore through my pants, through my skin and almost to the bone.
Stefan screamed for help, raising half the circus, and my howls raised the other half. Soon we were surrounded by a crowd of curious friends. One of the elder trapeze artists came to my side, cutting my pant leg off with a pocket knife and pressing the cloth to the bleeding wound.
Our Mutter, Margoli, pushed through the press of onlookers and took us home to our trailer. She banished Stefan outdoors and turned her attention to me. The angry cut snaked across my shin, climbing over my knee and trailing off on my thigh. She stitched it herself.
"You should not lie, this is what comes of it," she said, surprising me with her mother's telepathy. The guilt I had buried over eating the candy washed over me and I suddenly felt sick. Stinging tears welled up in my eyes.
She noticed my tears and her expression softened. "No, don't cry," she whispered, brushing the tears from my cheeks. "Crying does no good now. Just learn from it. You will wear this mark for life, son, let it be a reminder to you."
I simply nodded. And remembered.