The Contortionist and the Transformist

A modern fable about identity, performance, and love

They used to gawk, eyes glassy and gleaming, like the crystal ball on the end of a sword cane. Snickering to each other in hushed whispers.

Pointing. Their cheeks flushing with shame and desire as I contorted my flesh into shapes no preacher or doctor would approve of. An unstrung, broken puppet made of backwards joints and rubbery bones. Imaginations rushing to dark and deviant places.

The cacophony of voices, the thrum of footsteps like a flock guided under the Big Top by a border collie.

The Ringmaster.

Not a king. Not a maudlin fool. Not even a showman.

He was the sheepdog,

and the audience were the sheep.

The thunder of their hooves and their frantic bleats. Their hungry, ovine gaze trying to take it all in at once.

Baaaa.

There were a lot of us back then. Dwarves, bearded ladies, giants… Folks with too many limbs. And folks with too few.

Oh, how we delighted them with our strangeness.

Stars, each of us.

Shining stars.

Horrors painted in intrigue, scars and spangles bathed in the warm hues of lantern light bouncing off striped tent cloth.

The twist in their gut when they saw us. Saw the wrongness of it. And then settled into the show. Wrong became right. Became something to spend your hard-earned penny candy money on.

Each of us was a spectacle. Unique. Precious.

But he never saw it. Never felt it.

The Mirror Man. The Man of Many Faces.

The Transformist.

Oh, how he could slip into any skin, mimic any pattern of speech.

A parrot.

A chameleon.

A mockingjay.

No one ever saw him wear the same face twice.

Except for me.

He once told me he envied me… that I could twist myself into impossible forms and still always be myself.

I told him how deeply I envied him, that he could be anyone at all.

Neither of us believed the other.

---

I recall the day I arrived at the circus, hair pinned back in curls, wearing my finest sequined leotard. Hoping to fit in. Desperate to forget.

I performed for the Ringmaster. He looked on with delight, and with hunger.

“Atta girl! That’ll knock their socks off.” He winked lasciviously, slapping his knee.

“You’re like a sweet little dolly. My little marionette. You like that, don’tcha honey? Little Miss Marionette.”

And so that was who I became.

I was painted like a doll, dressed in black and white with a teardrop on my face like a mime.

I was placed in a glass box. To show how well I could contort myself in confined spaces. He told me that would “really make them say wowee!”

He’d lock me in once the performance began. A faint click. The smell of glass and metal and sweat. I don’t know if the audience even noticed.

Twist.

Bend.

My mind would go quiet while I performed. Letting my body stretch, the ache of finally pushing myself to where I could… feel. Finally. Truly feel.

I was caged, yes. But also free. People looked on in wonder, instead of just fear or disgust.

It wasn’t long before I met the Mirror Man. The Transformist. He rolled into camp not long after I did, hauling a costume trunk made up of a patchwork of dyed leathers. Looking as lost as I felt. Perhaps moreso.

They put him next to me in the side show. His own little wooden stage to transform on. Dressed him in harlequin motley.

At rest, he was a nice looking man, but average enough that you wouldn’t notice him in a crowd. His expression stormy. Troubled. Or vacant.

But when he put on a new face, you couldn’t tear your eyes off him.

He noticed me looking.

“Little Miss Marionette, eh?” He drawled, as he sidled up to me with a sly, overacted grin. “I bet you can get into all kinds of positions.”

I rolled my eyes at him.

Quick as a wink, he flashed a harlequin mask across his face and when he appeared again, it was like another person. Same brown hair. Same pretty brown eyes. Always the same deep, soulful eyes.

But everything else was different.

I gazed, open-mouthed, in wonder and bafflement. His movements. His voice. Even the lay of his features.

I would never have recognized him.

He spoke with a perfect French accent. “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. He is so rude.” He made a playful pooh-poohing gesture, chiding his alter.

He bowed and kissed my hand, lightly. Reverently. As though I were made up of precious china.

He lingered there, looking up through long, dark lashes, then smiled with boyish charm and winked.

I flushed, taken aback.

Then the mask slipped again, and in his place stood a sweet, awkward young man, scuffing his shoe in the dirt, shoulders hunched in shy apology.

“Golly gee, ma’am. You sure are pretty. I was watching you before, and you looked like somethin’ magic. Like a pixie trapped in a cage. I couldn’t help but come say hello.”

He blushed red.

Those eyes.

Those damn eyes.

And damn me, but I wanted to pull that boy to my chest and hold him like I’d never let go.

Laughter split the air like a pack of hyenas circling. A few boys shouted back and forth, tossing a metal lighter between them. One blew a big, pink bubble, which popped, leaving remnants on his lips like a deflated balloon. He sucked it back into his mouth and chewed.

He walked up to Little Theodore and laughed at him, pointing.

“Hey boys, look at this! Smallest man I’ve ever seen! What a freak!” He spat his gum towards him. “I bet that’s not all that’s small.” The kindly-faced dwarf nimbly sidestepped the spittle, then took a small bow.

Little Theodore, with the poise of a king, said: “Evening, gentlemen. Welcome to our Phantasmagoria. We do hope you enjoy your stay with us tonight.” The dwarf straightened his little tie and waddled back to position preparing for a night of showmanship.

The gum-spitting boy growled and took a step towards Little Theodore, raising his fist, when a booming voice cracked through the tent like a whip.

“Ladies and Gentleman! Right this way, right this way! Tonight—oh yes, tonight—you will see wonders the likes of which you’ve never even conceived! The most curious creatures ever to grace God’s green earth! Madeleine the Living Mermaid, Tom Thunder, our resident giant, Chloris Coot the Bearded Lady, Little Miss Marionette—the fetching and frighteningly flexible dame to my left—and many, many more. And I—I—am the Mirror Man. A man of many masks—who can be anyone—and no one.”

He bowed with an exaggerated and practiced flourish. “Come, come! Right this way! Right this way! Welcome!”

I turned to face him and was struck once again by this new persona. He was so confident. So handsome. So authoritative. The Ringmaster himself only dreamed of having this type of stage presence. The Mirror Man’s voice bellowed a resonant bass that commanded both attention and authority. His eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief, promising an evening of hedonistic spectacle. Everyone in the room had eyes on him, and him alone.

The boys were so taken that they forgot all about the dwarf and the crowds began to roll in, hungry to sample our many delights.

Showtime.

We took our places. I entered my glass case, heard the click, and began twisting myself like the warm, salted pretzels they sold at concessions. All the while I watched as the Mirror Man donned a dozen new faces, each as enthralling as the last.

Tom Thunder performed feats of strength, towering over the crowds. He had a barbell with wooden seats on each end and invited audience members to sit as he lifted them into the air. Two ladies went first, dressed in shimmering flapper dresses with feathered spectators. Then two large men, laughing and skeptical, were lifted high above Tom’s head, to everyone’s delight.

The Bearded Lady, Chloris, heckled him. The crowd seemed surprised that her voice was so high pitched.

Madeleine, the mermaid, was submerged in her tank, legs squeezed into her rubber tail, undulating suggestively. The men lingered there, seemingly taken in by the hoax.

Many of the other performers sat in silence, like museum pieces. Curiosities to be gawked at briefly and forgotten.

At last, the last few stragglers neared the exit. I looked for the Ringmaster but he was gone. I was locked in.

My vision blurred and my heart began to race. No—no. He wouldn’t just leave me here.

With a glint of white teeth and a twinkle in his eye, the Mirror Man approached.

Mime-like, he pulled the key out of his breast pocket and giggled behind his hand and then put his finger to his mouth in a silent “shhhh”. Tiptoeing with exaggerated steps he unlocked the door behind me and handed me the key.

“Take good care of that now, miss. Ringmaster thinks it’s gone missing. And I’m thinking it’s best it stays that way.”

I gripped that small brass key in my hand until it left its imprint in my flesh. My eyes flooded with emotion. I didn’t have words for the gratitude I felt.

So instead, I leaned forward, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, a shy little smile, and scurried off to my wagon.

That night I laid awake in my bed, staring at the curved beams of the wooden ceiling, key clutched tight to my chest.

What a mystery he was. Contradiction upon contradiction. And yet—he had shown me such kindness.

The key stayed “lost”. From then on, I got to choose when I performed in the box. And when I didn’t. Sometimes I’d even contort on his stage, as he wandered the audience. Just because I could.

The Ringmaster would observe, making snide little comments.

“Funny how that key just vanished into thin air,” he’d remark, voice dripping with false concern, as he watched me perform outside the box.

He shuffled our time slots, split us up, found petty ways to remind us he was still in charge.

But the crowds loved us together, and money talks louder than pride.

Eventually, a sign appeared over our corner of the tent in bold block letters: THE CONTORTIONIST AND THE TRANSFORMIST. People loved the pairing, the contrast — the girl who bent her body into knots, the man who bent himself into anyone at all. Shapeshifters, both of us, playing to the crowds.

Our acts became a dance of their own. Outside the ring, we settled into a rhythm. In the evenings we’d make a bonfire and Tom, the giant, would make up a big pot of “this n’ that”—his shorthand for a stew made up of whatever fresh ingredients we could scavenge from the town.

Caleb, the elephant tender, passed bowls around to each of us. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen, but he was tall for his age, with a mop of unruly blonde curls.

The Mirror Man took a liking to the boy, and seemed to put on his most fatherly persona around him. Tender but stern, gruff but kind, often saying things like “Good work, son,” or “Those elephants really took a shine to you, boy. You’ve got talent.” He’d ruffle his hair with his hand, or give him a pat on the back.

The boy worshipped him, and followed him everywhere. As the months passed you could see how Caleb’s confidence grew. Each time he got a new responsibility, he’d run to the Transformist for a quick “atta boy” and a proud smile, then scamper off with a spring in his step.

The Mirror Man was everything for everyone. He sloughed off identities like a snake slipping its skin. But sometimes, when his gaze lingered a bit too long, I thought perhaps I glimpsed the man beneath it all.

One night he went into town and bought a variety of liquors, liqueurs, elixirs, and mixers. He chopped some wood and built a long, shiny bar, with shelves on the back, and placed his new treasures behind it.

He donned a black apron and slicked his hair, topped it with a flat topped cap, rolling up his sleeves.

“The bar is open, friends.”

He poured and mixed with ease and expertise. He’d let them blab at him for hours about their days, listening, giving advice or feedback as needed. He never drank himself, but gave freely to all who came to his bar.

I didn’t drink much, anymore, but even I was tempted. I approached the bar, shyly.

He spoke with a warm, lilting Irish brogue. “Ah, my girl. I’d been wonderin’ when ye’d be kind enough to grace me humble establishment.”

He poured me a strange, pale green drink. “A nip o’ the green fairy for my pixie girl.”

I took the glass, my fingers brushing his for just a moment. My breath caught. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that might have belonged to any man he’d decided to be that night.

“Why don’t you join me?” I asked, with practiced coyness.

He shook his head. “Nah, love. I never drink when I’m working.”

The way he said it made me wonder if the whole world was his work.

I pondered why he refused me, as I sipped my drink and felt it burn down the length of my throat. I knew well that my big, seeking eyes made most men cater to my whims, especially mutually pleasant ones. Was it discipline—or distance?

I wondered, not for the first time, if the tenderness in his eyes was meant for me, or for the role I played in his story.

He studied me for a moment, eyes pensive, then took off his apron as if making a personal decision, and sat down next to me.

We sat in companionable silence for a bit and watched the embers drift up from the bonfire, twinkling out like stars in the night sky.

Raucous laughter shattered the silence, and we glanced over to see Tom Thunder standing with the Bearded Lady on his shoulders. He sat down like that and continued his card game.

“He lost a bet,” Little Theodore said to us, with his typical gravitas. “Gotta let her ride around on him all night.”

We giggled at the thought.

He poured me another absinthe, and I felt the shell that I always kept tightly wrapped around myself crack open, just a little.

He spoke with a new voice now. Soft, and earnest. Like an upstart young preacher hoping to spread God’s love and goodwill for all his children. He touched my forearm, softly, tracing a small round scar.

“What’s this?” he asked gently.

I flushed, and felt my shell snapping closed again, heart racing, protective.

“Somebody hurt you, hmm?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Then he turned his head and spat the word like venom: “Bastards.”

He paused a moment. His gaze drifted away.

“Is that why you’re here then?” he asked, eyes searching.

I nodded. Tears pricked my eyes as I sought with every ounce of my being not to crumple into a sobbing mess in front of him.

I breathed deep. And then again. I swallowed, and pushed the feelings back, back far away into the dusty old box in my mind where I kept them safely stored.

“You’re safe now though,” he said, with a small smile.

His concern moved me. I found the words pouring out of my mouth, before I had even realized I had turned on the tap.

“My father died when I was really young. So it was just me and my mama for a long time. She was flexible, like me. Taught me what all I could do. It was just us there, nobody looking on. I didn’t realize how… I didn’t realize how people might perceive my talents. Not until much later.

Mama remarried, and we moved into a bigger house. My step-father was a harsh man. A cruel man. But he liked to watch me practice. I thought maybe it was a way to please him, to spare myself the…” I trailed off. My body flinched at the memory.

“Mama caught a fever and died not long after. It was just me and him. And well… he seemed to think I’d make a fine replacement for a wife, said he could finally…” Again, the words dissolved in my mouth before I could say them aloud.

“I didn’t know what urges he was referring to, you see, when he watched me. I was still young, not… worldly.” I hung my head. My hands shook.

Then, as if waking from a dream, I looked up and met his gaze.

I expected pity. And I suppose there was some. But there was something else… recognition. Maybe even a hint of pride.

“I’m glad you got yourself out of there.”

“Me too.”

“What’s your name, by the way? It isn’t really Miss Marionette, is it?”

I chuckled. “Marian, actually.”

“Oh, clever. Clever. And a beautiful name.”

He smiled.

“How about you?” I asked, cordially.

For a moment his eyes clouded over.

“I’ve gone by many names,” he said, with something like finality.

My head quirked and my mouth fell into a small pout, wanting something to call him by that wasn’t just a showman’s tagline.

“But what’s your real one?”

“I’m not sure…” He paused, and the moment stretched on. Just when I thought he wasn’t going to answer, I heard, barely audible:

“Gideon. Gideon is the name I was born with.”

I smiled and extended my hand to him. “Pleased to meet you, Gideon.”

His warm hand enveloped mine with a soft squeeze, and we held on for a fraction of time beyond what would generally be considered “polite”.

There was a ghost of a smile on his face, but his eyes bored into mine like a sailor in a hurricane, hunting for any sign of a lighthouse.

“So Gideon,” I asked, “where did you come from?”

His hand abruptly tore itself from mine. His body stiffened and turned away. His eyes lost all their warmth in an instant, hardening like ice. I felt like I was looking at a stranger.

“None of your damn business.” He snapped, in a voice that echoed with coldness.

I snapped back as if struck. I was about to voice my complaint at being treated so rudely, but a voice in my head gave me pause. Wait, it said. Just wait.

So I did. I sat there for what felt like ages. He stayed, hunched and turned away. After a time, I placed a hand on his back, near his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrug himself away. So we stayed like that, until it was time to head off to bed.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, not looking at him as I gathered myself to head back to the wagon. “I understand. I didn’t mean to overstep. I just want to know you.”

Again, silence. Then, that soft, earnest voice, almost reluctant. “It’s okay. Sorry I snapped at you.”

And we went our separate ways.

I passed through the performer’s wagons, each a world of their own. Tom’s was large and sturdy, made of rough timber logs. Chloris’s had lace curtains and hand painted lily of the valley on the door. Little Theodore’s was small and painted a deep red, the door a bold forest green. And Gideon’s, his was mostly barren. A standard wagon. The only personalizations were the ornate lanterns he hung, which I suspected were from another life, in some faraway land.

I had painted mine robin’s egg blue, with little window boxes that held yellow flowers. As I turned in for the night, I wondered what it all said about us.

From then on, there was something of a tether between Gideon and I. Shared pain, and a quiet, tenuous intimacy. We’d often sit together in the evenings, feeling a sort of peaceful acceptance in each other’s company.

The circus folk could be raucous and debauched. He and I, however, valued tranquility. We loved our eccentric community of fellow freaks, but also stood apart from them. He put on all the faces they needed, but with me he was still.

Then one day, tragedy struck the circus.

Primrose, Prim, we called her, was one of our acrobats. A brilliant trapeze artist. She flew through the air with such grace and poise, always hitting her mark.

She walked the tightrope with the precision of a ballet dancer. She was an audience favorite.

The Ringmaster knew this. He pushed her harder.

Strung the tightrope higher.

And higher.

Dangerously high.

His smug, oily voice rang out through the tent.

“Prim, sweetheart, tonight is the night! You’re going without a net! What a spectacle! Boy oh boy, that’ll give ‘em a thrill!”

She was nervous, but the Ringmaster had decided. There would be no challenging him.

That night was crisp and clear and the stars twinkled in the sky like diamonds. The air smelled of sawdust and fried dough. Her leotard was pure white and sparkled in the lantern light. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, like one of those Russian ballerinas.

Three steps.

Five steps.

Her arms wobbled.

The line shook.

The audience held their breath.

She caught herself, and we released a collective sigh.

Another step. Another wobble.

And then she fell, for the first time in all the years I had known her. Like a graceful swan shot out of the sky.

She survived it, thank God, but her legs.

Oh… her legs.

Gideon and I rushed to her and got her on a stretcher and out of the ring and into her bed.

The Ringmaster set another acrobat to perform in her place without even a glance in our direction.

Always. The show must go on.

The show is the priority.

Prim was weeping, her legs grotesquely bent the wrong way. I held her hand and stroked her brow, trying to comfort her.

“Get me some alcohol, and something for her to bite down on. I’ll need splints and bandages ”

Gideon spoke firmly and authoritatively, like a battlefield medic. I did as he bid.

I returned and he had cut away her stockings and was assessing the damage. He was so caught up he barely noticed me.

“Oh good. You’re here. You can go back to holding her hand.”

He set to work. Prim cried and screamed as he set her legs, but he worked with calm and ruthless efficiency. When he was done, she was asleep. Unconscious from the pain.

“You were amazing,” I told him, breathlessly, as we walked out of her tent. “How did you do that?”

“I studied as a physician once.” He shrugged. “I’ve done a lot of things. Didn’t work out.”

I left it at that.

He had a lot of stories. A lot of ghosts of his past. Maybe someday I would learn about them.

As I walked back to change out of my filthy clothes, I daydreamed of a day when I might truly know his stories… learn the origins of all those beautiful faces.

Later that night I heard him.

A terrifying, booming voice that resonated through the camp. The voice sounded dangerous. Furious. Murderous.

The Ringmaster shouted back in turn.

Then there was the sound of fist meeting flesh. And a gutteral cry.

Again.

And again.

Until the only sound was a soft weeping whimper whispering across the field.

I ran to see what had happened.

Gideon’s fists were bloody, his brown flannel shirt flecked with crimson.

“Marian.” He looked startled to see me, and pulled up short. “I didn’t mean… well, I did. But I didn’t mean to take it so far. He just… I’m sure he’ll be fine. Maybe.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, noticing a bag on his back.

“To get the rest of my things. I can’t stay here.”

My heart dropped to my feet and the world spun around me. For a moment I couldn’t even respond.

Then, “Wait, please. Don’t go. Or let me come with you.”

“I have to,” he said, voice cracking. Stricken. “I never get to stay. Either I have to leave, or they leave me.”

I grabbed his hand with mine, “Wait, please…”

As he turned to leave, the tips of his fingers still clung to mine, warm and rough against my skin.

His voice was low and soft, and shook a bit as he spoke. “I… I don’t even know who I am. I could never be enough. How could I? There is no future with me.”

I placed a hand lightly on his upper arm, the checkered flannel of his shirt soothing, like a favorite blanket you’ve just found at the bottom of a storage trunk.

Tears trailed down my cheeks, smudging the white paint and black teardrop.

“Oh, my love. My sweet boy. You don’t understand…”

He turned back to look at me with those eyes that swirled like an endless abyss of hopes and dreams and fears and pains. Unspoken. Always unspoken. I continued, voice raw with emotion:

“I’ve loved every face. Every hidden scar. Every dream of you that you’ve ever wished to be. You don’t need to choose. I choose you. All of you.”

His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. The air was thick with everything he could not say. His hand squeezed mine one last time, the pad of his thumb gently stroking my palm. The warmth of his touch lingered on my skin. A spark that might yet catch.

It felt like a promise. At least, I hoped it was.

And then he turned and walked out into the night, lamplight catching the back of him like the final flicker of the show before the tent goes dark… leaving me with the quiet, stubborn hope that the curtain would lift again someday, and he’d step back into the light.

---

Days turned to weeks. The Ringmaster tried to hunt Gideon down, but they never found him. His injuries were severe, so he stepped back from the spotlight. A younger, kinder man took his place.

The show moved on, as it always did.

The roar of the steam engine, the animals pacing their boxcars, tiger stripes and elephant trunks glinting through the iron bars.

We freaks rode the rails and played cards in the moonlight as the countryside passed us by.

Town after town. Show after show. I waited.

Gideon’s absence was like a missing limb. A phantom part of myself I could almost feel…but not quite.

Seasons turned. With my newfound freedom I became what I had always dreamed of. Lady Marionette. The most well known contortionist in the business. I would never be locked in a box again.

I bought up part of the show and became a producer of sorts. Was able to retire young, with the money I had made, and moved to a peaceful farmstead in a town known for housing past circus freaks.

Life on the road just lost its appeal without him. Maybe I’d never have left the circus had he stayed.

But I made myself a nice life. A quiet life. Bought myself the kind of peace I never thought I could have.

But I never gave up hope that he would come home to me.

But then, one day, I was out feeding the chickens. Dressed in gingham, hair plaited, a simple farm girl—no longer a performer, no longer a curiosity, no longer a temptress.

And I saw him.

Rambling up the lane dragging that damn patchwork trunk.

My breath caught, my heart in my throat.

It couldn’t be.

I froze, afraid he was some sort of mirage that would disappear if I blinked or tore my eyes away.

But no—no, it was him. Older. Broader. But it was the Mirror Man.

It was Gideon.

I ran to him then, heart pounding in my ears as I flew, wrapping my arms around his neck, clinging like a trapeze artist performing without a net. He held me close, stroking my hair, his expression a mix of relief and disbelief, like a soldier finally home from war.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said softly, in that voice he saved just for me. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I love you. I’ve carried many faces since I left, trying to find the right one. The true one. But I never forgot yours.”

Tears clouded my vision. His fingers traced my cheek with such tenderness, as he continued:

“I am many things, but I’m not whole without you. And I’m here if you’ll have me…” the corner of his mouth turned up. “Have us, that is.”

My eyes drank him in. He was the same, but different. More comfortable in his skin. Before he had always looked like a man who had just arrived home and wanted to shrug out of his jacket. But for him the jacket had been every mask. Every mirror. Every face.

My lips parted on a trembling breath. “Of course I’ll have you,” I whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you. In every town, in every tent, and in every empty night since you left. I’ve loved every face, every shadow, every dream of you… I never asked you to choose—” I pressed my hand over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm, “—I chose you. All of you.”

He closed his eyes as if my words were a balm poured over an old wound, and then he pulled me into him, fierce and sure.

I kissed him hard, tears streaming down my face. I stroked his cheek. That face that I loved, in all its many forms. He held me tight, his face flooded with relief and joy and sorrow and tenderness.

All at once.

And in that moment, the years fell away, leaving just the two of us, suspended in time, whole at last.