Rise of the Ringmaster

by Jessica Julien

  RISE OF THE

  RINGMASTER

  JESSICA JULIEN

  RISE OF THE RINGMASTER

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Julien

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without the cover is unauthorized.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of critical articles or review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, brands, trademarks, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved.

  Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Cover design by Shayne Leighton

  Interior Art by NerdyDesignCo

  Paperback ISBN: 9798633213362

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  CONTINUE THE JOURNEY...

  Acknowledgments

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I

  My boots squished into the mud as I followed my father’s bouncing top hat and twirling cane. It didn't seem as though the guck even bothered him as he stepped quickly and lightly through the puddles that accumulated from last night's downpour.

  “This couldn't have waited until the ground dried up? We had to come out here today?” I asked with a heavy sigh, shaking off the thick mud that stuck to my sneakers. The smell alone was unbearable—wet soil and sweaty socks—and now my father was making me trudge through the unholy slush.

  “No, of course not. We have to begin now if we want to draw any sort of crowd for the fall,” my father said, not looking back at me. His eyes were glued to the mass before him—a pile of red and white striped fabric rustled in the soft summer breeze.

  “I don’t understand, what is it?” Before today, my father had been very cryptic about the special surprise. I overheard him speaking with my mother one night about it, saying it was going to be our new “family thing”, but my mother opposed the secret right away, telling him he was “chasing the impossible”.

  He rubbed his hands together excitedly. “You’ll see.”

  A group of men approached from behind the mound with poles and stakes in their hands.

  “Sir,” a man with broad shoulders and a thin mustache said, bowing his head in a gentle tilt.

  “Yes, let’s begin.” He motioned to the others with his cane before leaning on it heavily. I watched as it slowly sank into the mud and rolled my eyes. He didn’t even need the stupid thing. It was only for show, only for a pleasing whack against a shin. A shudder raced down my spine at the thought, a memory of it slamming against my leg one too many times before.

  We stood watching the men lift and heave the thick material onto the poles, listening as they argued how to assemble it the right way, until after a final groaning effort, they lifted the massive form off the ground.

  It was enormous—unlike anything I’d ever seen in person. The red and white stripes that lined the circumference were faded and dull but held firm against the breeze wafting through them. The arched top reached high as if attempting to touch the sun itself, casting a thick, dark shadow behind it.

  “Seriously?” I turned to my father, whose smile reached from ear to ear. He was beaming and looked ten years younger. It was as if this monstrosity released a new light within him, softening the wrinkles and wear and tear from his life in the mill. A twinkle shone in his faded blue eyes as he shifted to me.

  “Isn’t it great?” He chuckled.

  “Dad,” I sighed, shaking my head. It was another one of his business schemes—another one that wouldn’t work—one I knew he had wasted our entire savings on. My mother was right to tell him it was a bad idea. “This is...I just...why?”

  He was watching the men stake down the edges of the tent with a new sense of determination. “We will make a fortune, don’t you think?”

  “How? We don’t know how to perform or anything!” I ran my fingers through my thick hair and wiped the sweat from my brow that accumulated from the heat and anger. “This is just another one of your insane ideas.” I turned to leave but his long fingers wrapped around my arm jerking me back.

  “Don’t talk to your father that way. You will respect me whether you want to or not!” His happiness was swiftly replaced by anger—an emotion I often saw. My father’s voice filled with hatred and pulsed toward me.

  Standing firm, we glared at each other—we both needed to calm down. We were in public; not behind the closed doors of home where people couldn’t see what transpired with our hatred.

  “Mr. Monroe?” one of the men called. My father turned with a smile. I yanked my arm free and ran across the muddied field back to my bike. I had left it parked next to my father’s rusty, dented car. My license was still six months away—not that it mattered, I wouldn’t get a car—so I was left to hop on my bike and pedal home.

  My mother was cooking dinner when I rushed through the front door.

  “Can you believe him?” I stormed to the fridge and yanked the door. Grabbing a can of brown soda, I flopped into our small breakfast table. The edges were cracked and the thin table runner covered the wear and tear from years of breakfasts I shared with my mother before running off to school.

  “What, dear?” my mother asked over her shoulder. The steam from the pot of noodles wrapped around her already frizzy bun. My mother was lovely, and at one point she was probably beautiful, but the ravages of her imprisonment with my father held heavy in her face. She had to cover it up, though, just as we did the table.

  “Dad.” I shook my head. “He’s insane!” I slammed the can against the wood startling my mother. She glanced at me and I gave her an apologetic look as I slinked back against the chair. Unlike my father, I didn’t enjoy causing fear in others.

  Covering the pot, she opened a cupboard to pull out spices for the sauce. “So you’ve seen it,” she sighed heavily.

  “What is he thinking? We can’t run something like that!”

  Shaking a few herbs into the pan, she replaced them then leaned against the counter to look at me. “You know how your father is.” She forced a smile, but I could see how it didn’t reach her eyes. “He gets so excited about these new adventures. We just need to support him.” Stepping toward me, she placed her small, frail hand on my shoulder and I nodded.

  “Okay,” I relented, standing to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Whatever you say, mom.”

  “It’s best we show our support,” she urged and I understood. Heaven forbid we went against my father—in private or public—he would make sure we understood who was right, who was in control, of the situation.

  Returning to the stove after checking the clock on the wall, a mild panic crossed her face, but she quickly shoved it away replacing it with a soft smile. “Go wash up. Dinner will be ready soon.”

  I understood this was code for your father will be home soon.

  As I neared the stop of the stairs I heard the front door slam shut. It shook the pictures on the wall, clattering against the pale blue paint in their own alarm. I froze, waiting to hear where the footsteps would lead after his boots hit the tiled entryway. Stepping carefully down the carpeted staircase, I saw my father storm into the kitchen with a trail of fury— his anger drifted around him in a hazy grey hue. I shook the image out of my mind and tiptoed
down the remaining steps.

  “Where is he?” he growled, wrenching my mother's arm. I saw her wince and drew myself from my hiding place.

  “I’m here,” I said shamefully.

  “How dare you embarrass me today like that. Do you know how hard I work to ensure this family has a roof over their heads and food on the table? Do you think your school clothes and books are free?”

  I looked to my mother who stood with sad eyes, wrapping one arm around herself.

  “Answer me!” He shouted and I saw my mother’s aura shift from worried blue to a pulsing orange of fear.

  “N-No, I know they’re not free,” I stuttered.

  “Then why would you go out of your way to make me look like a fool in front of my new crew by running off like that?”

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t understand.” I flinched as my father slammed his fist on the table, tipping a glass of water. Hurriedly, my mother reached for a towel and began blotting it with shaking hands.

  Nudging my mother out of his way, he rounded the table. “You would understand if you stayed to listen to my plan, but you decided it was better to leave. Now my crew thinks I have no control over my idiot son.”

  I hung my head submissively, a trick I had learned very young to avoid a painful backhand if I continued to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, dad. It won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t.” He ripped a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. “Tomorrow you and your mother will join me to finalize our game plan. We need to get the show up and running as quickly as possible.” As he popped the top of the can, my mother and I both flinced. We exchanged worried looks and waited until he had taken a long swig. When he set the drink down, he glared at me expecting a swift response.

  Shifting my gaze to him, I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, sit. I’m starving. Tonight we eat, tomorrow we begin.”

  I slunk into my seat and let my mother fill my plate. Without looking from my dinner, I ate, listening to my father dictating how we would conduct our very own family circus.

  II

  My father had a gift—a talent I suppose—to manipulate people’s thoughts. He could sway anyone into agreement or following orders through a psychic ability he claimed to have. I think the power over others is what created the lustful nature of being able to control. It wasn’t something I liked knowing—that at any moment he could use that kind of manipulation against me. So far he hadn’t—and I’m not sure why—maybe it was because he enjoyed the psychical way he forced me to follow orders. One punch at a time, I thought.

  As I sat watching him interview act after act, I could see him using his ability to ensure he would get the best ones. He spoke with acrobats, aerialists, lion tamers, clowns, magicians, and countless others. And with the most talented, he gripped their hands and looked them in the eyes before inviting them to his new troupe as if they had the choice.

  “We would love to have you join us. Please say yes,” he said, and as if falling into a trance, his darling acts nodded with glassy eyes. They signed the contract that would hold them to a promise they didn’t know they made. As he released his hold, I watched as the pull of persuasion faded and their former consciousness returned.

  “Why don’t you try this time?” my father asked me. He had always hoped I would have the same power as him and be able to get anything I wanted out of life. I never understood why he didn’t use this gift to get a high paying job or use it to gain ownership of a bank or agency, but he only wanted to control his own creations—like the circus or maybe even like God himself. His constant mantra was that he would rather suffer with pride than thrive in subservience. It didn’t make sense to me, but I was not my father.

  “I can’t,” I protested with a shake of my head. I knew that no matter how hard I tried to get people to do what I wanted—give me a candy bar from the gas station, an A+ on a science paper—no one would fall to my desires.

  “Maybe if you just tried.” He glared at me reaching for my arm. “Here. Miss Tink would like to go next. She has a tiger act.”

  I rolled my eyes but stood next to my father who waved over the next act. Miss Tink took the stage under the big top and my heart dropped from my chest.

  She was radiant, the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Her aura glowed brilliant pink around her as she twisted and turned around a small tiger cub that danced on its hind legs and spun in circles. Her raven hair twisted in a tight bun on top of her head with a few trailing curls that framed her face. I could see the mossy green of her eyes glittering with joy as she laughed and cooed at the cub.

  They moved as one unit, as if the tiger and her were connected, and it was thrilling to watch as pulled out hoops for it to jump through or platforms for it to leap onto. The tiger followed each wave of her hand seamlessly, as if they moved as one unit.

  When her act finished, my father clapped and reached for her as she walked toward him.

  “Well done, very well done indeed, Miss Tink. That was absolutely breathtaking.” He held her hand tight as she tried to pull away.

  “Thank you.” She smiled and nodded before glancing at me.

  “Tell me, how do you get the tiger to obey your commands?”

  “I’m good with animals, I guess,” she began, but quickly I saw the pull of my father’s gift as her eyes glazed into nothingness.

  “Tell the truth. How do you control them?” he demanded.

  “They can hear me,” she admitted. “I can hear them. We communicate in a unique way.”

  “Ah!” My father looked at me. “She has a gift too. Here, take her hand and get her to sign.” He shoved her hands into mine, it was warm and clammy from nerves or excitement, but it felt almost comforting to grasp it. Feeling my father’s eyes on me, I strained to push the ability he thought I had out and around her.

  My father told me before that it was like a blanket you wrapped around the person. With deep concentration, you could force the thought into their mind. As soon as you locked it into place, they accepted it and took it as their own. It was something I had tried a hundred times before and failed. All it did was make me look like a creep.

  “We would love it if you joined us,” I began, watching her eyes begin to refocus. She blinked at me as if forgetting I had been here the whole time. “Please, join us.” I gave her the best grin I could muster.

  “Y-yes, of course. I’d be thrilled to join.” She squeezed my hands and pulled away as my father clapped her on the shoulder and handed her a pen.

  My stomach filled with butterflies and knots as an exhilarated terror filled me. Miss Tink could be the greatest thing I’d ever seen, but she had no idea what she was getting herself into.

  “I look forward to working with you. We begin rehearsing next week and will have our show schedule posted by then as well.” Miss Tink nodded at my father, then shot me an eager smile before she raced to her friend waiting in the bleachers.

  “I’m glad your ability is beginning to come through,” my father said as he shuffled the contracts and slipped them into his briefcase. Placing his satin top hat upon his head, he left. It was the first time I had ever felt as though my father were proud of me, and I couldn’t make myself tell him the truth—I didn’t persuade her, she decided on her own. For fear of what would follow at home if I were to reveal my deceit, I kept it to myself.

  It was the worst mistake I could have made.

  III

  When my father discovered I did not, in fact, have the ability to manipulate or persuade people, he took it out on me with a vengeance that landed me in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, a black eye, and two bruised ribs.

  “Jacob, can you tell me one more time how this happened?” The third doctor asked. This one wore a different colored set of scrubs and held a thick file. His white hair slicked back and the wire-rimmed glasses in his pocket looked bent and scratched. Looking over the chart at the end of the bed, he began jotting down notes.

 
“It was a bike accident.” I winced through my shrug. “I l-lost control I guess.”

  “Well, some of these injuries don’t line up with that kind of crash. Are you sure nothing else happened? No fights with a friend or anything?” This doctor didn’t buy my story, and I couldn’t blame him. How does someone get a black eye from crashing their bike? Answer: they don’t—not normally anyways.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, nothing like that. I only have a few friends and we don’t fight.” I averted my gaze by flipping through the channels on my hospital-provided TV. I needed to distract myself so I didn’t tell the truth and get myself killed. I heard his sigh as the bed shifted and he sat at the end.

  “Is everything okay at home?” he asked, carefully searching my face for deception. What he didn’t know was that this wasn’t the first time I had been admitted, not the first time I spun lies about my wounds, not the first time I had covered for my father’s temper. I was good at this. It was a game I had been playing since I was very young.

  “Everything is great, actually. My dad is starting his own circus.” I forced a smile, hoping it reached my eyes. I was saved from the doctor’s piercing stare when my mother returned holding a cup of coffee and a small bag of snacks.

  “Oh, hello.” She nodded at the doctor. “I’m Jacob’s mother, can I help you?”

  The old doctor stood and shook his head. “No, I’m all set. Thank you,” he said, then turned to me one last time. “Jacob, if you ever need anything, or want anyone to talk to, my office is on the third floor. Come find me.”

  Giving him a curt nod, I thanked him watching his warm orange aura glow softly around him as he left. Deep down, I knew I should tell him the truth, but knowing my father, I wouldn’t be the only one in danger. I wouldn’t just be digging my own grave, but the good doctor’s as well.