The Dove and The Falcon
By Emily Gregg
Some girls love to dance. Some sing, or experiment, or tame the wild out of beasts. Not me. If you ask me about my favorite thing, the one that sets my life on fire, I will give the same answer I gave as a little girl. I am The Dove, and I love to fly.
I first joined the circus on a dare, but then I met him. We flew from our homes as young, reckless dreamers and learned to defy gravity. After that, we flew down the aisle and traveled the world, making memories in front of awestruck crowds. And for a time, this show was our world, but we grew older and wiser and slightly less reckless.
It was a pragmatic, mutual decision to quit.
So I told myself.
It’s been five years since we flew together through the rafters, and the monotony of normal life has changed us both in different ways. I fell into old habits to pass the time, innocent hobbies that grew into obsessions and drained our accounts. He found greater strength in his fists.
He doesn't know I’ve come back. He doesn’t know that for two months I’ve been sneaking off in the evenings to rehearse and earn my spot under hot lights once again. He doesn’t know that when the circus leaves town at the end of the week, I’ll be leaving with it. Seven more days of secret shows and I’ll be free.
Tonight, I’ve chosen the flashiest leotard with rhinestones all the way down the sleeves, long enough to cover the bruises he left on my arms.
I turn at a tap on my shoulder.
“Bad news, tush,” the manager says. “Georgie never showed.”
Georgie. My tried and true partner on the Wheel of Death. I know the rhythm of his footsteps, the weight of his body landing counter to mine. He can sense the pace of my run while blindfolded. That kind of chemistry takes time. I can’t perform without Georgie.
“How could he not be here? He’s never been late.”
“Don’t know what to tell ya’, kid. We’ve called in an understudy. Name’s The Falcon from the daytime cast. Don’t worry. He’s a pro and knows the routine by heart. You’ll be a sensation! Talk of the town!”
He slaps me on the thigh and lumbers off.
The dressing room is a flurry of sequins and feathers. Aerialists sliding bodysuits over cold skin and jugglers loosening their fingers.
“What do you know about this guy?” I ask my mirror partner. She’s already caked in makeup, shimmering under the bright light.
“The Falcon? He’s the best. Haven’t you heard? He can run a quadruple Wheel of Death solo with tied hands!”
I doubt that. I myself have only conquered a triple. “That’s good to hear,” I say, smearing my face in thick foundation.
When I have transformed from a battered runaway to The Dove, I begin to move toward the ring. The backstage lights make my sequins glow red as I slide along the edge of the tent in relative darkness using the canvas as a guide, rough beneath my fingers. The audience is aroused tonight, like hungry animals waiting to be entertained. Their stomps from the bleachers above rumble, threatening to distract me from careful steps over wrapped wires and steel supports.
“I hear the guy from the daytime cast’s a legend,” a stagehand whispers as I pass.
I don’t take my eyes off my path to the stage. “Oh, yeah?”
“Word on the street is he can tame a lion with a wink.”
“That’s great news,” I deadpan. That skill won’t help me during the transition into the finale of my act. When the Wheel of Death is on its final rotations, I will leap from my wheel. It whips around so fast that the second wheel will be below me by the time I come down. It’ll just be me, gravity, and a competent, trustworthy partner to grab me from thin air. I’ve done it a thousand times, and it still gives me the shivers when I think about it.
The ringmaster riles the crowd in preparation for my act as the Wheel of Death is rolled behind the curtain. There is no sign of The Falcon, but the stagehand reassures me he is in makeup and rushing to be ready on time.
I secure my mask. The Dove is always ready.
Then it’s my cue, and I’m running to mount the Wheel just as it begins to rotate. The entry is the easy part, but it elicits a gasp from the spectators. I run around the inside of the Wheel like a glittering hamster, though I like to think of myself as a diamond being tossed and polished. I am mid-summersault when I spot him. I knew he was there, of course, as he is the one who got the Wheel going. He’s standing at the base right where he’s supposed to be. Relief rockets through me. We can do this on the fly. Professionals through and through.
My feet pound the grate of the Wheel, causing it to rotate faster and faster. In the first big moment of surprise in the act, I flip and run in the opposite direction. The audience lifts from their seats as I float and land with ease.
We transition into the development section, where risk doubles with each turn of the Wheel. I feel The Falcon mount his end, but I can’t see him. I’m too busy running hard enough to keep it going while he’s occupied. His counterweight is perfect. They don’t select just anyone for this apparatus. We are perfectly matched, and we’ve never even met.
We pick up speed. The clack of the axel counts the beats for me as I whoosh past, running so hard I fully circle the inside of my Wheel. The audience finds the edges of their seats, eyes peaking between tense fingers. I flip myself to the outside of my Wheel. Oos and ahs fill the air as the music intensifies. Now I’m running, heart racing with the added danger. I’ve got this down to muscle memory, but the finale looms.
Though my pace is quick to cover the outside surface of my Wheel, I have a better view of my partner. The Falcon is my mirror. His costume compliments mine, the same pattern with inverted colors. Orange and red and yellow. Like twin flames twirling at the ends of a mechanical baton. We somersault, jump rope, and spin in sync, each skill timed perfectly to keep the Wheel rotating. Despite the mask, I can feel his eyes lock on mine, likely learning the particular idiosyncrasies of my movements so he’s ready when it comes time to catch me.
Is this what the future holds? I’ve had it good with Goergie, but this is a different kind of magic. I feel myself falling again, like I did so long ago when dreams were big and boys were nice.
The tempo is like lightning. Guitars whir through the speakers, climbing higher and higher as we prepare for the finale. I rely on him one hundred percent. All I have to do is fly.
It’s time to sprint. I’ll need all the help I can get from the Wheel to find enough height. I round the base one last time, crouching to leap as soon as I’m on the rise. I am launched into the air, high above the stunned crowd. Arms outstretched. Majestic. Flying.
My Wheel continues on its orbit, and The Falcon emerges beneath me. I hover, time stretching, and I get my first good look at him.
Blue eyes like sharp crystals pierce me in midair. Eyes I’ve seen before. Eyes I have used as a target through countless acrobatic feats. Those eyes have always been there to guide me to safety. That’s why I chose them. That’s why I married them.
My husband does not extend his hands to mine. He whirls around and jumps onto the side of his Wheel, stopping its violent rotation. A flip of the hand here. A twist of a leg there. All to distract the audience from my extended body falling gracefully—arms like a bird, toes at full point, smile unwavering—into darkness. My pose is flawless because, of course, I am trained to make everything look intentional.
The worst part, the thought that flashes before my eyes instead of a life well-lived, is that I was not able to free myself. He has taken even that from me.
I hit the ground out of sight beneath the stage as drums hammer and guitars sing in chaotic dissonance, drowning out the crack of my bones. The crowd roars in adoration above me, stamping and clapping. My final flight steals the show as I fade away.