The Cage

It was the star attraction and, in many visitors’ eyes, the only part of the show worth giving a shit about. From miles around they arrived to see it, smiling politely at the acrobats and rolling their eyes as they ignored the clowns. They choked through the smells of straw and stale sweat and burnt candy floss and piss just to get a glimpse at the cage.
Inside was the beast without a name, the beast of every color. It crept on four legs, coat furious as fire, stalking from one end of its enclosure to the other. A tail like lightning lashed at the air restlessly. Eyes like polished opals burned through the crowd, and some screamed with delight and with fear.
And it deserves saying that the cage was also wonderful, in its rugged way. Forged from flawless steel, it was a perfect cube of impressive size and rested on an array of squat legs. A wide door was set in one side, held in place with a gilded lock.
But of course, what the people really wanted to see was inside the cage. None could agree on just what the creature was— many called it a tiger of sorts, some an over-large wolf, while a few tried to claim it was a person in some sort of impossible disguise. The mystery, of course, was half of the appeal.
Only two things were certain about the beast, regardless of who was asked: it had no mouth of any kind, and it was beautiful. Visitors would crowd around the cage as long as they were permitted, necks craning and eyes wide. At some stops, the ringmaster would order the performers to keep the rabble moving.
Sometimes, when the troupe had retired for the evening and their cups were full, they would pester the ringmaster. Tell us again, they would say. Tell us where you found it.
And the ringmaster— because there is nothing so intoxicating as a little attention— would sit back heavily in his chair, lips stained purple with wine. He would let them beg under the hot incandescent bulbs. He would tut-tut and wag his finger. He would let their curiosity bubble and spit until just before they began losing interest.
Then he would lean forward on his elbows, oblivious to any stacked cards and empty bottles that were knocked over. The story always began as a whisper.
It was many years ago…
The ringmaster had taken his esteemed show abroad, packing his colorful tents and wagons onto a tiny ship. It had carried them across choppy seas to perform for kings and saints and wizards. Wherever they went, the ringmaster claimed, they were showered in coin, in flowers, in adoration. Every evening was a spectacle, every morning spent shaking off hangovers and last night’s lovers.
The performers listening to the story, haunted by the scents of sawdust and cheap beer, never believe this part. But they let him go on.
After a time, so his story went, the ringmaster began to miss home. But he felt it a shame to return empty-handed. After all, he was in command of one of the greatest shows in the world. These were distant lands, alive with mystery and thrill. Surely there must be something here that he could bring back with him.
His musings bore fruit in a port city, the very day before their return. Rumors brought him to a small warehouse right off the docks. A bent-backed old fart of a man led him into the depths of the building, where the cage— and the creature within— were waiting.
Immediately, the ringmaster knew this was the attraction he’d been craving. He grabbed the man by the lapels and begged him to sell the beast. No price was too high for such a remarkable thing. And to his surprise, the man offered it to him free of charge.
As these things go, there was a catch.
First, the man had said, his breath sour and revolting, it cannot not be used for profit. This is a display of nobility, not a roadside gallery. You must treat it with respect.
And the ringmaster would always recount how he swore up and down that he would never, all the while winking at his troupe. They would always laugh, but it never occurred to the ringmaster how much he really divulged. The best liars are self-professed; the worst are self-revealed.
And second, the bent-backed man had said, leaning in closer: the cage must never be opened.
The beast, the man explained, was in need of nothing. It did not eat, or drink, or excrete. Sometimes it would sleep, but otherwise it was perfectly content staring back through the bars. The cage should not, could not, must not be opened.
The ringmaster had almost laughed. An attraction that needed no care! He might as well have been told that the creature shit gold bricks. But he remembered the man’s first stipulation, and with forced solemnity he had agreed to the terms. That night, the cage— and it was remarkably light, even with the creature inside— was brought aboard their ship. The rest, the ringmaster would say, was history.
And the troupe would bask afterwards, clap him on the back and fill his cup once more. Most didn’t believe the story, but the ringmaster told it with such earnestness that playing along was a surefire way to get on his good side.
And besides— if that wasn’t how he came to possess such a strange and wonderful creature, how did he?
Day after day, week after week, the show went on. The visitors never stopped coming, and while the rest of the act was dismal the beast never failed to draw curiosity. Some even joined the show just for a chance at a closer look.
One was a young girl, orphaned and alone. The ringmaster had reluctantly offered her a role sweeping up after the other animals in exchange for food and bedding, and she had gratefully accepted.
She loved the creature. There was something about the fact that it was all alone— no others of its kind— that made her feel understood. In her rare free moments, she would visit the cage. Sometimes the beast would look right at her, eyes like distant stars. She wondered if it ever felt lonely, too.
It was a warm night when she crept into the ringmaster’s wagon. He was slumped over his stained mattress, dark rivers running from the sides of his mouth as he snored. He kept his money in an enormous, steel-plated vault at one end of the wagon, a dozen locks and bolts keeping his riches safe.
The key hung on a thin chain around his neck.
It was easy. It was unbelievably easy. The girl thought she was dreaming, quietly closing the wagon door behind her. So tightly was the key clutched in her hand, she could feel the metal squeezing against bone.
The beast was asleep when she approached the cage. Even in the darkness of midnight, it seemed to glow faintly, as though it simply could not resist drawing attention. The girl was not afraid. She had heard the story, but it was just that— a story. And besides, the ringmaster had broken the first rule already. Surely, then, there was no harm in skirting the second?
She would be quick. Just a moment. Just a touch.
The key slipped effortlessly into the lock, turning with a faint click. A distant voice carried a drunken love song through the air. For half a moment, as the cage door silently swung open, she thought the beast would rise. But it remained in place.
The cage did not.
It reared, a beast itself, and scooped up the girl through its open door. She screamed as she tumbled in, hitting the bars against the back wall. Terrified, she looked for the creature, but it had vanished. Had it escaped? She didn’t know.
But the cage was now moving. Skittering on those squat legs, it smashed through the tent wall. One of the clowns and an animal tamer were there, running towards the girl’s scream. The cage lunged. In one motion it had swallowed them up, too. They slid in next to the weeping girl.
No one escaped. The cage rampaged through the troupe all throughout the night, tearing through displays and tents and wagons and anything else. Every person was greedily devoured, scooped up into that hanging maw. Those inside tried to escape, pulling at the bars or crawling towards the door.
But the cage was filling. Soon there was no space to struggle. Body after body was pulled in, the door crushing the flesh inward. Wails and screams. “Please,” someone begged above the din, “for the love of God, fucking help us!”
More and more. More bodies. More pressure. Cracking bones and gasps of suffocation. Pushed against the bars, some were pressed through in soft, quiet pieces. The cage left behind hands, ribs, bits of skulls in puddles.
By morning, the plot is ruined. The act is utterly destroyed. Like a small animal caught beneath the wheel of a passing carriage, there remains nothing but a stinking mess of gore. No survivors. No one is left to share the story.
My cage, too, is gone.