Years ago, there roamed a splendid circus, boasting everything a circus should have. From the moment of its arrival into each town, the troupe would create a spectacle, with jugglers and bally girls providing a preview alongside painted wagons which advertised: 

THE FAMED — THE WONDERFUL — CIRCUS TROUPE

And, in smaller lettering underneath:

TWO SEATS FOR A DOLLAR

The troupers would settle in for a week’s stay. Early in the evenings, as the fireflies started to wink, paying townsfolk would be lured under the big top by the fragrant and oddly mesmerizing combination of hot peanuts, hand-popped corn, and manure. The audience would come for the promise of entertainment from clowns, contortionists, and equestrians—most of all, they came to watch the fearless lion trainer lead her fearsome cats in a dangerous dance. The lion tamer, who performed under the rather grand moniker Lady Leona, had more than the big cats trained: with a stool in one hand and a whip in the other, she would lead the felines to jump and frolic, then lead the crowd to cheer with a glance from her amber eyes.

Absent the danger that accompanied Lady Leona in the circus ring, she still would have drawn crowds. The scars that puckered and crisscrossed along the young lady’s dark, tawny arms were not enough to distract the eye from her beauty. A lone facial scar, running jaggedly from the left side of her temple to the edge of her full lips, only served to highlight her sculpted cheekbones and jawline. But once outside the ring, the lion tamer would strip away her confidence with her costume, trading sequins for shyness. Would-be suitors willfully misinterpreted their bashful quarry as a proud, aloof girl needing to be tamed herself. She preferred, therefore, to spend her time with her feline companions—not because she felt they understood her better than anyone, but because she understood them. They were not her friends, or her pets, or her enemies: they were not hers at all, and she loved them for how they kept their independence, even while caged. 

Before each performance, while fastening her braids into a secure bun, Leona would count the scars on her arms as a reminder that no step was to be taken lightly. 

Leona enchanted crowds with danger and beauty—but it was the lady’s gentleness that drew the eye of the troupe’s youngest clown.

The youngest clown, Albert Auguste, was a misfortunate looking fellow. When smeared with greasepaint, he resembled vanilla ice cream left melting in the sun: droopy eyes, droopy ears, droopy jowls. The only bit of his face that did not sag was his hairline, which receded in contradiction to his youth. Although he wasn’t marked with conversational wit, he could pratfall to more hilarity than any other clown on the continent. That skill made Albert popular amongst the company; it was his kindness that won the heart of the lion tamer. 

For weeks, the pair watched each other without realizing their mutual admiration. Leona saw the youngest clown present the bearded lady with her favorite candies for no observable reason other than to see her smile. Albert noticed how the lion tamer would commiserate with fellow performers when plagued by a stingy town or the circus master’s temper; he also noticed how rarely she complained.

One dusky morning, as the troupe prepared to leave one town for another, the lion tamer watched the youngest clown help others pack up their props and equipment once finished with his share of the work. Albert  caught Leona’s eye—he grinned; her answering smile was smaller, and the clown’s heart contracted with the pang of unrequited affection. But then, before Leona dropped her gaze, Albert looked into her eyes, and what he saw gave him hope. 

At the next locale, when Leona exited her wagon and found a rose placed on the ground, she did not wonder who placed it. That night, rose in hand, the lion tamer visited the youngest clown and unpinned her braids. Some months later, she gave birth under a bright moonlit sky, with her love by her side. As she neared the end of several exhausting hours, a shooting star blazed overhead.

“Look, my love,” Albert whispered. “Our child is born under a lucky star.”

It cannot be said whether Leona was in any state of mind to notice such things, but perhaps she heard and felt encouraged, for she gave a final, great push, and out came a beautiful little girl.

Naturally, they named her Star.

###

Star grew to be as brilliant as her namesake. How could she be otherwise, when her father’s voice was forever in her ear, whispering: You were born under a lucky star. As soon as she could toddle, the child began learning pantomime and physical comedy at her father’s knee. When Star, aged two, executed a convincing faint during supper one evening, her parents jumped to their feet in shock—then Star gave herself up with a giggle, and Albert burst out laughing. 

“She’s a natural performer!” He crowed and scooped up Star, whirling her around to more melodious giggles. 

“A natural terror,” Leona sighed, hand at the base of her throat where she could feel her pounding heart, even after her husband had placed Star back down to finish her meal.

By age three, Star had joined the clowns on stage: first, as a contortionist dancer, who could dislocate limbs and swing them around; later, she performed on stilts, drawing all eyes to the girl who jumped, ran, and danced across the ring. Albert Auguste, that Jester of Pratfall, taught Star how to wobble on stilts while maintaining her center of balance. Soon the little performer was terrifying audiences (and her mother) with a seemingly careless performance style of stumbling and swaying like a drunkard…but never falling.  

Star’s father would have loved for his daughter to perform evermore by his side, but the girl had her own wants. One morning, Star announced that the aerialists had agreed to begin training her. 

“The aerialists! My darling girl, you are a gifted clown. Why would you want to leave that, when I have so much more to teach you?” Albert didn’t try to hide his dismay. 

“Being a gifted clown will never satisfy me,” Star replied seriously. “I want to be a gifted everything.” Seeing her father’s face crumple, Star kissed him on one droopy cheek and promised to continue performing by his side—but she would train with the aerialists, too.

“You will surely fall!” Leona cried. “Bad enough to see you wobbling around on those stilts. When you live in the air, there is only one way down.”

“That is why we have nets to catch us,” shrugged Star. “I must learn acrobatics, and if I am to be any good, I must learn now, for I am already near too old—unless you can tempt me with other studies?” Star gave a facetious smile: her petitions to learn lion taming were routinely denied.

“I would sooner feed you to the lions than teach you how to tame them, reckless child,” her mother said. 

So Star trained with the aerialists and found she was not so far behind as she had feared. Her father’s lessons had taught her how to be graceful without the appearance of grace; the aerialists taught her how to harness that grace into force. Leona and Albert would share a secret smile whenever they spied Star flexing the musculature that befitted the calisthenic nature of her profession.

Falling is natural in life; more so, in the circus. Thus it surprised nobody that as Star’s mother foretold, the girl did fall—and when she fell, she landed on the nets, as Star expected. Once she stopped falling, Star again felt the call of the circus and the need to learn all its wonders. 

There was no part of that world which Star’s adventurous sensibilities did not find appealing. So obvious was her passion that even the mercurial circus master deigned to instruct her in the art of juggling—while his son watched, pretended not to watch, tried to think of some clever, dashing way to catch her attention, and invariably gave up before he began—soon, Star was juggling while hanging above the crowds by her coiffure. She spent every moment of leisure refining her skills: she memorized limericks and monologues to recite while juggling on stilts; she exercised her jaw until she could swing by her teeth from a bit; she installed a bar in her family’s wagon and would hang like a bat while relaxing with a book. 

“It’s to strengthen my ankles,” Star explained serenely when she caught her parents staring.

“Why the ankles?” her father asked, and Star explained the importance of having strong ankles to anchor one’s body when performing tricky and dangerous aerial drops. Her mother groaned a little—internally. 

###

One morning Leona went to work with the cats, and instead found her precocious Star, age twelve, with a whip in one hand and a stool in another, surrounded. Leona had refused to train Star, citing certain harm—but the watchful daughter had nonetheless grown up studying her mother’s mastery over large cats, and thus felt equal to the task. 

Leona’s scarred arms could attest to her multiple maulings; although she loved the cats, she knew she would be foolish to relax her guard around them. Her heart froze, then, to see her daughter wrangle the felines with more nerve than the lion tamer had ever dared. Leona stopped herself from shouting, or running, or doing anything to startle the animals. Yet while she watched, her heart thawed as she realized her daughter did have a gift—then it sank, as she realized she could never again try to keep her daughter in line with an idle threat to feed her to the lions. 

Continuing her observation, it was evident to Leona that despite her refusal to teach, her daughter had listened and learned nonetheless. Star’s melodic voice was surprisingly commanding; each order rang with certainty. Leona nearly laughed then, to recall those many arguments with her daughter. She felt she was seeing them pantomimed before her now: both in the authoritative tone Star used to subdue the animals, and in the way the animals allowed themselves to be subdued. 

It became apparent to Leona that her daughter knew she was being watched, and possibly who watched her; though the girl didn’t take her eyes off the cats, something shifted in the way she held herself, as always when Star had an audience. She wrangled the cats back into captivity, then turned to face her mother with the same determination in her shoulders that had come from her mouth moments ago. 

The lion tamer raised a finger, signaling she would speak first. 

“I must admit to feeling galvanized and aggravated in equal measure, my girl. But I cannot deny how well you handled the cats. I see that you are capable of listening to your mother—when it suits you.”

“Then…” Star hesitated. “You will train me?”

Leona allowed herself a small, resigned sigh as she nodded her assent.

Star was as eager a student as ever under her mother’s tutelage. And Leon was surprised to find that she herself both enjoyed and benefited from instructing her daughter. She could see that Star was not careless in her passion, and Leona’s heart nearly burst with pride the first time they performed side by side. Star was even able to convince Leona that they should feign wrestling the cats, to impress the crowds. 

But Star was still not content with all that she knew. This time, her eyes shifted to the tightrope walkers, and there she found her true love. Star had a proud heart—not undeservedly, she felt, privately believing she had mastered all circus arts faster than her fellow troupers. But when she began to learn the art of rope walking, she looked back on her earlier training and shook her head at the idea that she had felt gifted. This was her true gift, and she knew the other tightrope walkers felt it, too, for they were exuberant in their praise.

“Yuv strong ankles,” Clyde, the head walker, commented. “A rope walker’s greatest asset is th’ ankles.”

“Why the ankles?” Star asked, echoing her father. “I had supposed a sense of balance would be the paramount skill.” 

“Aye, balance is vital—try tae balance on a broken ankle, and ye may come tae see what ah mean. Even afta ‘tis healed, a bone cannae be as strong as ‘twas.”

“I hope you remember that wisdom,” Leona cautioned after Star had relayed the compliment and the advice during the evening’s supper. 

Star, feeling put out that her mother had not acknowledged what was surely the more exciting part of the conversation, pouted and rolled her eyes. 

“Listen to your mother, my girl,” Albert chided. “She did not get to where she was by being a reckless woman, however bricky she may appear in the ring. As you well know, a thrilling show gives the appearance of danger—” 

“Without the danger itself, yes, yes,” finished Star.

“The most important lesson I have learned, both inside and outside the ring, is that no step in life can be taken lightly,” the lion tamer said, touching the puckered skin that daily reminded her of this mantra. 

But Star, never one to sulk for long, gave a little laugh and replied, “Ah, but there is no cause to worry, for I was born under a lucky star.”

###

Though the air was Star’s chosen domain, that lucky star followed wherever she went. 

By the time Star was nearing seventeen, she felt well-prepared to headline an act. When performing a set, she delighted in the audience’s gasps and shrieks each time she feigned a slip on the wire, then relished their roars of approval when she would finish with her signature move of hanging by her teeth and spinning until she felt like if she were to let go, she would fly, not fall. 

Bit by bit, Star convinced her parents of her readiness. “I was born to be a star, you know this, Papa. Why else give me this name? What have you both trained me for, if not for this? And Mama, I have practiced every bit of the routine. I will keep myself safe, I swear.” Star made a great show of pleading, but with a glint in her eye—she knew they would not refuse her.

Leona had known this day would come. Soon, Star would leave the troupe and find a bigger crowd to perform for. Leona’s heart hung heavy as a millstone at the thought of her daughter leaving, but that was not reason enough to hold Star back.

Albert was, of course, enthusiastic. Since the night of Star’s birth, he had been ready to watch his daughter ascend.

Secure in the support of her parents, Star went next to the circus master. She caught him in a pleasant mood, and won him over with her promise that the daring new act would double their crowds once it took off. She demonstrated a few of the tricks she had in mind, but he had long watched her study and perform alongside various troupers; he knew she could put on a show.

When the night arrived, circusgoers streamed into the big top, where a high wire was strung between platforms, with aerial silks hanging within reach. On one platform, two seasoned acrobats awaited Star with props. They would be acting as her stagehands that night, and if all went well, they wouldn’t have much to do. On the other platform stood Star, half-hidden in shadows, surveying her audience. She felt pleasure seeing that, despite the clowns performing a pit show to warm up the main act, many of the natives—or locals—were craning their necks in anticipation of the dangerous show that had been advertised. This would be a unique performance: there was no net below to catch her in case of a fall, for such a precaution would hinder the grandiosity of her spectacle.

After the clowns had finished their revelry, Star waited to begin until the crowd was shouting for the main act. She began by delicately placing one leather-clad foot after the other onto the rope, her costume flashing in the spotlight. She took those first steps with embellished caution: one hand holding onto a parasol for balance; with the other, she partially covered her mouth, which was set into a perfect “O”—a clownish caricature of fear. 

As many in the crowd would have been familiar with a standard tightrope performance, Star knew not to wait overlong to pique their interest. When she was halfway across the line, she tossed her parasol to the acrobats on the other platform in exchange for a jump rope. Star skipped in place atop the wire, so lightly that those sitting below could hardly see her feet rise. Her simple skipping progressed into complicated weaving and crisscrossing; the audience burst into cheers and whistles as Star crossed the rest of the wire while continuing her skipping; she made another exchange, this time for a unicycle—in a blink, Star was cycling back and forth. 

Star cycled, then danced while holding a balancing pole, and all the while the lights caught the sequins on her garment, scattering luminescent patterns across the tent’s fabric. She shimmered and soared like a starling. The crowd was besotted, but Star was not done. With one hand stroking her chin as though in thought, Star beckoned for one of the acrobats on the platform to join her. As rehearsed, the acrobat shook her head in mock terror, until the crowd screamed encouragement. Star beckoned once more, and the acrobat climbed onto Star’s shoulders, who then escorted her to the opposing platform.

While Star kept the crowd distracted by these antics, Lady Leona and her oldest lion placed themselves in the center of the ring. The pair looked up to watch the commotion: one tracked Star’s movements with trepidation, the other with alertness, as though stalking prey.

Once lion and tamer were settled, the crescendo of Star’s extravaganza arrived. She put a foot out—wobbled, with her arms circling wildly—the lion tamer’s heart flew back into her throat, where it had kept semi-permanent residence these past seventeen years. But Star found the wire, as she always did, bending forward and grasping it with her hands, then flipping her body around, one, two, three times in quick succession. Before anyone could see quite how she managed it, Star was swinging by her ankles, not many feet above the lion that the townsfolk now noticed. Hanging from her upside-down perch, Star waved merrily to her audience. From the corner of her eye, she saw the crowd ripple as one of the natives collapsed onto the other locals behind her. 

And still, Star was not done. Using her carefully developed core strength, the girl lifted herself back atop the rope and returned to her original platform, with the swagger that thrilled crowds and terrified her mother. Grasping onto the aerial silks, Star performed a hypnotic dance—ascending the silks, then dropping, twisting, twirling, while posing in between to display her sculpted form. Upon placing her feet on the ground, Star executed a back handspring, landed in front of the lion, took the whip from her waiting mother’s hand, and began their mother-daughter lion wrestling routine to screaming applause.

Star was the darling of the circus that night, and undoubtedly would be for many nights to come. Clyde patted Star on the back several times, telling her, “Yuv done awright, lass.” Beer was shared and spilled, older troupers told tall tales of their own daring feats, and the ringmaster’s son, bolstered by the alcohol, nearly plucked up the courage to smile at Star. 

Hours later, Star, flushed from alcohol and triumph, walked with her parents back to their wagon. 

“Did you see that native faint, Papa?” she laughed, prancing a few steps ahead.

“I did. That’s the mark of a good performance, my girl.”

“Ah, but I want to give a great performance—I shan’t rest until I bring terror to all those watching at the next show, and the next.”

“Hush now,” the lion tamer moaned. “You were wonderful, but you give me such a fright! I wish you would be more cautious.”

“My love,” protested the clown (he was no longer the youngest clown), “she was born under a lucky star!”

Star twisted to give her father a grin and her mother further raillery. Because she was not looking ahead, the sure-footed Star did not see the branch that lay on the ground.

She tripped.

She fell.

It was a short fall—no safety nets needed on the ground. But with her body twisted, Star landed on her ankle. Albert heard the snap and cursed a god he didn’t believe in. Leona heard and was thereafter unsure if it was an answer to unspoken prayers. 

Star heard the snap—felt the pain—and knew her dreams were over.

The injury was not the worst fate that could have befallen Star; they all agreed on that. There would be many performances to which she could lend her talents. But a weakened ankle would ensure Star could never walk the rope again.

Thus Star learned no steps in life can be taken lightly. 

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