She held tightly to his large hand, and together they struggled against the strong winds and slashing rain. With her other hand she cradled a tiny cricket cage against her slight body. Her tattered cloak barely covered her, and she tried to keep it pulled around the fragile cage. The huge man beside her shielded her from the winds and rain, but he couldn’t protect her from the cold. He knew they would have to get inside soon, or her cough would return. He searched ahead through the darkness, and his eye caught a tiny twinkling light. He guided her in the direction of the light, and soon they came to a weathered old wagon, a lantern hanging on the backside.

The lantern cast its light in a tiny circle on the ground, and flickered nearly out because of the winds. The man knocked on the door, but there was no response. He knocked louder, and finally the door creaked open a sliver, and dark eyes peered out.

“Who’s there?” whispered a mellifluous voice from within. “And what do you want?”

The man explained they had traveled from the far country seeking the Circus del Portal d’Or, but they had gotten lost in the storm.

“Why do you seek this Circus?” asked the voice from inside the dark wagon.

The man explained they had heard that the Circus was a magical place, a place of healing, and the little girl was sick and needed some very special treatment.

The voice from within whispered that they had wasted their time, the magic was gone. The voice advised them to seek shelter elsewhere.

The man’s shoulders slumped and his face looked drawn and pained. “We have nowhere else we can go,” said the man. There was a long pause as the man’s pleading gaze fixed on the eyes through the crack in the door.

“Come in,” whispered the voice. The two climbed the steps into the wagon, and the door closed behind them.

The next morning found the pair sleeping soundly, dead to the world. Falare the Mystic, a woman of untold years and dressed in silks of lavenders and purples and blues, draped with a golden cloak, sat near the window smoking a pipe. Her face had those wonderful wrinkles that grace one with age, and her eyes were deep pools that reflected a wisdom that comes with years of a life of reasoned and well-made choices. Her eyes seemed to fix on a point beyond the far mountains, and she smiled as though recalling something familiar. She hummed softly an ancient sounding melody. The storm had broken, and the morning sun broke through the remaining clouds to the east. She turned her gaze to the two travelers, and was met by the return gaze of the little girl.

The girl’s eyes were also deep pools that reflected wisdom, but wisdom that comes only after many travels around the sun. The woman took note. She motioned for the girl to come near. The girl uncurled from under the protective arm of the man, and came and sat next to the woman. The woman placed a warm woolen shawl over the girl’s shoulders, and got her a cup of steaming soup.

“Your physicians have told you that you have a bad heart.” A statement, not a question. The little girl nodded. “And an affliction of the lungs,” added the woman. The girl nodded.

“Even though she has a bad heart, it is made of gold,” said a deep voice behind them, and the man now wide-awake joined the two.

“I know,” said the woman.

“What did you mean that the magic is gone?” asked the man.

The woman looked at the man, and turned to gaze out the window. “It has been gone for a long time,” she whispered absently, “but it was not always so. Once we brought laughter and joy to the lives of any that came to sit within our little big top. They came with many a malediction, affliction and infirmity. And they always left with uplifted hearts. Those were days of goodness.”

The woman said the owner of the Circus, one Sharq Thhomason, once was a generous man of vision, who loved the people. Something happened to him in some dark moment in his life, and he lost his sight, and in his blindness became a most bitter man. He kept the Circus only because he knew nothing else. One day he met a man, name of Guile Jhamison, who was born without a heart. He was struck by the man’s efficiency and cold business sense, and asked him to become his business manager.

After years of aimless wandering with his Circus, Thhomason one day met the famous magician, Lord Joy, whom because of his wide popularity, he invited to lead the Circus. Lord Joy was a most wonderful man, full of vital energies and the wisdom sayings of the ancients, and his sleight of hand was a delight to young and old. At first the people of the Circus, and the people who came from far and near to the little big top, were uplifted by the deep chord within that Lord Joy touched when he spoke. People marveled at his feats of magic. They hung on his every word, and his huge hand resting on one’s shoulder conveyed a most wonderful feeling. And the days of the Circus were indeed wondrous and prosperous, and brought untold richness to the people.

During this time Lord Joy replaced his smallish wagon with the grandest of wagons, larger and brightly painted in reds and yellows, with columns and port windows filigreed in gold flakes. Not to be outdone, Thhomason and Jhamison, too, replaced their worn wagons with comparable vehicles of wealth.

Then, very slowly, and imperceptibly at first, things began to change.

One day Jhamison posted a notice on his wagon saying that henceforth he would inspect all Circus equipment himself, once a month. Not long after Mondalvo the Daring was injured when he fell from his trapeze bar and the net failed to hold him. Mondalvo felt his net had been tampered with, but he had no proof. Everyone suspected that Jhamison had pulled a few strands of chord from the net, thus weakening it, and taken the pieces to add to his beloved string collection. It was well known that in the corner of his wagon, Jhamison kept a huge ball of bits and pieces of string and twine which he’d been gathering all his life. But no one dared saying anything. Thhomason accused Mondalvo of improper care of his own equipment, and like the others, Mondalvo said nothing.

Thierbal the Fierce, the tamer of tigers, was concerned that his big cats were in a weakened condition and sickly, the result, he believed of being fed inferior and tainted meats. Thhomason blamed the local ranchers who provided the improper meats to the Circus, and who charged overly high prices for their goods. Thierbal pointed out that the meats currently being fed to his charges were purchased from Thhomason’s brother, to which Thhomason bristled and accused Thierbal of spreading false and libelous statements. Thhomason protested that his brother was only the seller of meats, and not the producer. And thus, Thierbal’s tigers continued to worsen, and not just a few died.

One day Parsifal the clown reported to Thhomason that someone had stolen his gold watch, the one his grandfather had given his father, who in turn had given it to him. It was one of those large affairs, with large hands on a large face that clowns for eternity have dragged behind them as a part of their personae. Parsifal was crestfallen with the loss. Thhomason promised a thorough investigation, but Parsifal had a sense that nothing would be done. Everyone suspected that Jhamison had it in with his collection of all things gold. He did so love his gold.

And so things went, with one accident or loss or broken piece of equipment after another, and all the while, Thhomason promising to get to the bottom of things, and Jhamison seemingly oblivious to the plight of each member of the close-knit Circus family.

Because the equipment was in such dangerous disrepair, and the performers had so little faith that anything would be done, the morale in the little big top dropped to such a low ebb that the spirit of goodness slowly evaporated from their works. Gradually the people came less often, and the passing by word of mouth the glories of the little big top dwindled and eventually stopped, and the people no longer came for healing or uplift.

“It is in such a state that you have found us, little one with your shepherd,” Falare whispered.

Later that night, a cry went up with the most dreaded of alarms – the wagons were burning. In an instant the Circus family was out and fighting a huge fire that had already consumed four of the ten wagons. Each went to work with their prearranged responsibility, and in short order a bucket line was at full force attacking the fire. A team made sure that everyone was accounted for, and provided blankets and care for any with injuries. Another team gathered the animals and herded them off to the other side of the meadow, calming them as best as they could. The fire raged on, and one after another the wagons were consumed in spite of the valiant efforts of the Circus folk, and in the end none of the wagons was saved. By morning the fires were but smoldering embers, and people stood around in small groups in stunned silence in the growing light of dawn.

The fire was determined to have started in the wagon of Jhamison, where the clutter of pieces of paper used to keep the Circus’ accounts ignited from a candle left burning after Jhamison had spent a long night of viewing the pieces of his gold collection and playing with his huge ball of string. In the ashes of Jhamison’s wagon, Parsifal found the melted remains of his gold heirloom, the large hands fused in swirls on the large charred face. Jhamison scowled at Parsifal, and then in a heartless gesture, scoffed and walked off.

Lord Joy tried to comfort his Circus family, but his eloquence and store of ancient sayings rang hollow, and his words fell on unhearing ears. The people watched Thhomason try to heal the sense of loss among his people. He failed, and feeling nothing for a man of empty promises, the people turned their backs and walked away, leaving him alone in the middle of a circle of smoldering ash.

The little girl with her companion turned to Falare and asked what the people would do now. She whispered she thought they would gather beyond the meadow, and talk about and remember the good days. Then they will talk about traveling to the far country, where there is word of a Circus of Light, a little big top with a reputation for healing and feeding the soul.

Falare looked into the eyes of the little girl, and asked if she and her traveling companion would like to take yet another journey, this time back to the country of their origins, where there are reported people of profound love and caring. The little girl grasped the hands of the huge man and the woman with deep eyes – the man held the girl’s tiny cricket cage in his other hand, and they turned toward the road leading over the mountains…