No care or love had ever touched the poor boy, and thus he held none in his heart, until that fateful hour. It was then that he would start seeing his life in a new perspective. One that would do away with his self-pity, whether for better or worse (judging by how little sympathy his grown self could feel). While he crouched there, crying, she came to him. He did not hear her approach. She practically hovered to the boy’s side, her green eyes concerned and strange.

     Though glowing over the huddled boy, broken and as out of place as he was, her own oddness felt comforting to him. Her sympathy was just, and he knew by looking at her that the mystic was as unwanted as him. Dressed also in rags, she mimicked his forlorn look, but hers was gaudy and colorful, clothing decorated with beads and embroidery. Her hair was a mess of black strands that would have run to her waist if not for them being hopelessly tangled into coils and curls.

     He had recognized her, and looking past, he could see the queer booth from which she came. If it had been before, he would have evaded the witch, like all of them did. Most people around here would make a wide arc around her stand, like one of the runes carved into its frame could cast a spell over them that would tie them to her. Yet now the flight had flown from him, and perhaps being cast under her spell no longer seemed such an undesirable end.

     As the boy stared up at her, tears still hanging from his eyes, the mystic felt a prick in her heart. The boy’s eyes, an unusual gray (as if a storm cloud had permanently come to rest within them), were shocked with pain and fear. They timidly shot back and forth, as if awaiting a painful infliction of punishment from everywhere at once. He had endured much, despite his youth. The mystic reached out to touch him on the shoulder, but he flinched away. Nevertheless, the young woman only seemed to grow warmer towards him.

     Seeing her image within the glass, it felt contorted to me. Having only known the wild, witchy hag whose face hung in a bed of wrinkles and whose eyes were shot with both mischief and madness, the young woman of the past shook my very soul. It was clear that something had taken a toll on her, and watching the face of the young ringmaster, it finally clicked. The poor boy, pitiable and pathetic. I grew almost angry as I watched the face of the grown monster overlay it in my mind. I knew how this story ended, but now I knew how it began.

     The connection that formed between the mystic and the ringmaster. The bond between them that had formed from that instant of staring upon each other in pity. The responsibility the mystic must have felt and probably still feels for the boy that would become a brute. But then, it was a responsibility she was willing to take. As I was drawn back into the story, I forgot what would come of the two of them and saw only a boy wishing for love and a motherly figure who wished to give it to him.

     For a moment, the air felt heavy, as if it was filled with promise and compassion. The lady knew she could help the whimpering creature before her. She could heal more than just his sliced palms. Thus, she nurtured him with her sympathy and treated him as her own child. By day, he was beaten and enslaved by his master, but by night, he was in the arms of the one person he loved, and who loved him.

     He would sneak away to her stand, and she would care for him. She would use odd mixtures of witchy potions on his bruises and lacerations, erasing the marks of torture from him, or at least from his skin. She would perform card tricks and read his fortune. Another memory, clear and bright, was revealed to me. One of many from this short time, encompassing the only happy part of the ringmaster’s childhood. As the mystic and the boy were joined, waving their hands above her great crystal ball, images flashed past between them. Of unbelievable adventures, both dark and dazzling sights, and broken bits of stories without beginning or end.

     Futures, the witch would explain. Futures of patrons she has had, that she will have. Of people who will change the world. Of those who will destroy it. The boy lay his head upon his hand and gazed intently into the glass. As he watched two strangers, a man and a woman, bump into each other and lock eyes in what could only be the spark of love at first sight and a passionate future together, a new question crossed his mind.

     Though he was but a child, the rough experience he had gained through his hard life with the circus had trained him to think deeply. So many futures had he seen, both happy and sad. Yet he knew nothing of his own, restricted to his glum present, the slave of a brute and a lacker of dreams. Could it be possible one day for him to be free? To be the one with power for once? In control of his own destiny? As if reading his mind, and perhaps she had, the mystic smiled and lifted the boy’s head to meet her warm, motherly gaze. She waved her hands once more above the crystal ball and let out a hopeful exclamation.

     “Well, look here! Time you cheer up, boy. I see a bright future ahead of you. One day, you’ll be running the big top!” The boy’s eyes suddenly filled with wonder and hope. He knew the powers of the mystic and would never doubt her. With the assurance that one day he would be the head of the show, he scampered off merrily back to his miserable quarters.

     Yet the mystic did not watch him go with the same gleam in her eyes. Rather, her green irises had turned a shade darker, and her lids were heavy, like those of one who has perhaps seen too much. She had not been lying. She had seen the boy in her crystal ball, and he was indeed showrunner of the circus, but the future was shrouded in darkness.