Chapter 12: Illusions
I don’t believe in fate, I believe in fate existing within us. Now I understand that you just scoffed at my semantics, but give me a moment to explain.
Fate is often held in the same untouchable faith that only gods are granted. An unseen and indomitable force which governs everything, only rarely stepping into our lives with a dramatic flare. Consequently, fate is only recognized in the remarkable, the moments of happenstance brilliance, where an unexpected meeting or opportunity arrives, leaving us touched but otherwise bewildered.
But that begs the question, does it not? Why is it that we only recognize fate’s visage in our most intense memories? The answer is the heart of my claim. Fate does not govern us, no more than we govern it. We are conduits for its expression, and without us, fate would have no hands with which to tell its story. We simply don’t choose to see it that way. When chances meet ambition, when inspiration converges with skill, when passion dances with will, fate does a curious thing. It relents. It steps down from that intangible throne we’ve conjured for it, and briefly, we wield it as a tool to manifest the ringing in our souls. It may not be as controllable as twitching our thumb, but it may not be as ungraspable as the skies above.
When we look at the stars, we often wonder where fate will lead us.
But we could look at our hands and ask instead: where would fate be without me?
Some give it the names of gods. Others claim it doesn’t exist at all. But whether it exists through all of these things or is merely a figment, I have come to give it a different name.
Inspiration.
The following October after I met Shamus Dodge, I funneled more effort into my performance for the Hallow’s Eve festival than I had the previous years, entreating the help of Portsworth’s most illustrious practitioners, engineers, and artists, and all but straining the limits of the Foxfeather’s coffers in the process. A solo act wouldn’t be sufficient, I’d realized, not if I was to exceed the previous year's display. In one of our correspondences, Shamus had mentioned that he would be in attendance at the Gallows' Stadium, even that he'd bring one of his colleagues. It was the first time that I had been aware of someone in the audience. Although I tried to convince myself it was an exciting notion, more than anything, it terrified me.
Although the Hallow’s Eve Performances in Portsworth had been attracting tourists long before I was born, somehow, I had managed to charm audiences enough with my first displays of knife juggling to earn a solo act the following year. After which, Saron, the coordinator for the events, recruited me into the crew which planned each performance. It can’t hurt funding, after all, to have a member of the royal court listening in on your endeavors.
And so I found myself, once more, staring down the pit of something I was not altogether prepared to do. No amount of practice ever felt like enough, not with last year’s performance, and in not in my third attempt to bewitch a crowd of thousands.
In the darkness of the backstage, the tiredness of Saron’s eyes were extenuated only by the rich, mauve rings beneath them. But ignoring that, the rest of her demeanor was sparking as if sleep was something she’d never heard of before, or she was simply too busy to consider practicing. She seemed to embody every aspect of the theater: the harried movements of the stagehands, the nervousness of dilettante actors, the arrogance of the barely adept, and the pensive reflection of the true thespian.
While all this rushed around us, she had her hands raised to her mouth, gripped tightly while she watched a troupe of acrobats stream through a triangle of blades being tossed between three jugglers.
I had watched the troupe practice this routine in frozen dawns and heavy winds, in afternoons marred by the sweat-inducing summer sun, in the evenings when silence was in abundance. Now, with their shadows cast by the torches lining the edge of the stage, their incessant practice reaped only what it should sew: perfection.
Saron’s hair matched the night sky with her mid-length locks rimming her tense expression. To my delight, her height was a head beneath my own. But for every lacking inch she made up for in resolute beauty, something I certainly did not have. Her strut never lacked purpose, her eyes were rarely seen without destination, while her rounded, full lips spoke of meticulously picked words even before they were pronounced clearly.
“You always look so nervous,” I told her, my voice muddled by the iron and steel mask that matched the others’. Unlike last year, my ensemble didn’t weigh half as much as I did, which was something of a relief, even if the feats I was going to attempt seemed to compensate for that burden. “I’m surprised that eleven years of this has still left you biting your nails while you watch it unfold.”
“Eleven years, perhaps, but each year is a new challenge, just as demanding, just as risky and unpredictable as the first. Each year, I am beginner all over again, and there's no such thing as perfection; there's always a chance for a mishap. I’d be a fool to think the chances grew slimmer the longer I lived.”
I hummed my approval for that answer, then checked the harness on my body for the ninth time that evening to be sure that all the straps were in place, that I could still access my throwing blades, and that I had still managed not to piss in my trousers. “Well … what’s the worst mishap you ever seen?” I asked, just to pass the time.
Saron turned as if to slap me, but must’ve thought better after remembering that my cheeks were encased by the mask. “What demon’s crawled in you, child? Asking such a thing at a time like this?! You want to damn this whole place with misfortune? Save it for the celebration after, won’t you? Keep doing your stretches.” In the end, she settled for pinching my arm as hard as she could.
“Gods! A’right, I didn’t mean anything by it. Forgive me.”
“Absolutely not! Not now,” she replied, the smirk on her face no more hidden than mine. “Wait, wait, wait! Where are you off to now?” She groaned and yanked me back from my less than stealthy retreat.
“I just need to see something, I’ll return before you’ve even thought about it.”
“Certainly you mean to! But I know you better than to expect as much.”
“Just a few minutes is all I’m taking,” I insisted and pulled my arm out of her grip.
“You barely have ten before you’re up!”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be quick about it.”
Saron groaned again, tethered to her irrepressible desire to watch every movement of the performance. “You always do this. You act as if you don’t care in the slightest!” she hissed at me, though I was already starting down the staircase.
I quipped back, “But you know me better than to expect as much!”
Thinking better, I took my mask off before I began searching the crowds for Shamus. Beneath amber clouds and a blood moon, the throngs in the Gallows’ Stadium were a mixture of the boisterous and reverent, casting up steam through silent breaths and gaudy laughter. Getting close to the audience, I could feel their vicarious viewing soothe my nerves. There was nothing less intimidating than watching a drunk fall over himself after laughing too hard at something that, in all likelihood, was not very humorous.
Guards were posted around the roped circle of the dugart pit, where the cheapest seats, (or simply just small spaces to stand), could be secured by a single dugart. It was a common joke that if you couldn’t afford a seat in the stadium, you could always find a dugart somewhere on the ground while you walked there, and settle for a place in the pit.
But I wasn’t interested in the pit, no more than I was interested in catching a vomit stain on my impeccable costume. Suspended above the pit were hundreds of gilded, cascading seats which simultaneously provided roofing, as well as a better view for the attendants willing to pay a steeper price. Up there, the crowds were a hush of well-bred manners and stifled enthusiasm from those who saved their way to a breath of fresh air above the commoners. When I had sent a letter back to Shamus with two tickets to the upper scaffolds, he had replied with a long rant about entitlement, the imbalance of wealth, and the poor souls who were damned to watch a performance from the squalor of the dugart pit … as well as a sidetone of thanks.
Despite his inky tirade, I didn’t expect him to squander the opportunity. Yet, as I stood at the edge of the pits and searched the scaffolds, Shamus was nowhere to be found. Before long, I found myself convincing one of the posted guards to grant me entry to the scaffolds. Past the curtains, I shuffled and apologized my way to the highest tier of seats. But even there, as a few guests hissed their “Shh!”s at me, I saw no hints of the thief. I found, instead, two empty seats. That, and the cracking applause that sent me sprinting, cursing, and tripping my way back to the stage.
“You have some kind of wild hair of idiocy in you, you know that?” Saron chastised as she grasped me by my collar and hauled me up the stairs to the backstage.
As soon as I’d landed on my feet, I was immediately swarmed by stagehands who latched my harness to a system of ropes and pulleys that led to the crew on the catwalk. The dozens of latches clicked one after another, each followed by a harsh pull to test their strength. If her glare was any indication, Saron wished to murder me. Unfortunate for her, we only had a few moments before the next performance.
She, herself, strutted through the curtains to introduce my act, surprising the crowd with the zeal that boomed from her. Slim, gold blades hung from her black skirt and blouse, catching enough light to set the silver of her mask gleaming. She gesticulated with her hands and skipped from one end of her speech to the next, bending low to catch a particular person’s attention before jumping to another.
With my recent excursion to the scaffold, my nerves had no time to throttle me, and instead, I was overwhelmed by an intense exuberance. To my surprise, Shamus’ absence did not dishearten me, it relieved me of the pressure I’d felt. Shivering to appear before the masses, I felt the crew tug one last time on the fastenings, then back away to allow three illusionists to intone their enchantments upon the ropes tied to the latches, casting until the twine was translucent. Despite their precise spells, their magick seeped through the ropes, catching on my sleeve, my fingers, making parts of my body seem invisible before materializing again.
Saron walked back through the curtains, yanked the mask I had forgotten was still in my hands, and shoved it back onto my stupidly broad grin.
“You scared me to death, Casimir. I nearly called in another set,” she said as she tied the mask taut.
“It’s Hallow’s Eve, isn’t it? What would it be without a little scare?”
Before she could reply, the thick, sable curtains swung open, sweeping her and the stagehands out of sight. Naked in front of the audience, six dancers fell into their rehearsed steps on either side of me, twisting in pairs, disconnecting at fingertips, and twirling to rejoin at the waist. I walked between them, slowly approaching the audience with a tilted head as if they were the curiosity.
Like Saron’s outfit, my tunic and trousers were decorated with small blades, each of them slotted in a loop of leather. In my haste to retrieve four of them, droplets slipped from my thumb and pattered onto the floor.
Ignoring the pain, I sprinted from center stage and flung myself towards the pit. Shouts rose as I flew into the air. People shoved and fought to flee from my landing.
The crew working the charmed ropes yanked me back as soon as I’d reached the height of my jump, pulling me in a sudden swing back towards the stage. The aghast shouts restored themselves to roars of approval and applause while I inexplicably ascended above the throngs.
Now, the true dance had begun.
One by one the dancers tossed up palm-sized, leather balls stitched to bright streams of crimson and gold fabric, each to be skewered by a throwing dagger while I flung them from perpetual oscillation. In a turn of breath, in the arc of a swing, in the stillness of the apex, I sent the throwing knives flitting to their targets. A spray of sand, a thud, punctuated each successful hit. The longer I was suspended, the more targets were tossed; the quicker the dancers spun, the more came hurtling to meet me in my flight.
The crew pulled, pulled and released, pulled and released, granting me the rhythmic harmony of a swaying necklace held aloft. After every two rotations, the tension from one rope would lessen and another would tighten, slanting me at unpredictable angles before returning equilibrium. I dipped close to the floor, I rose uncomfortably high. Below me, the dancers’ whirling outfits were flower petals of black and gold, hastened to blossom and retract in quick cessations. Above them, a cruel god rebuked the flight of their winged seeds, impaling their innocent expression with little else than the flick of his body in the passing of an airborne twirl.
My heartbeat slowed, my breathing bordered on laughter, and my fingers, though slick with the blood from my thumb, found fluidity in the motions. Somewhere beneath the sensations, the crowd was reacting, somewhere beyond the precision, I had reason to care for things that mattered little; somewhere beyond the stage, I wondered what had kept Shamus from seeing a performance I had tailored specifically for him. But it is surprising, how little import misfortune, sadness, or discontent has when we are in the heat of a moment we have managed to capture. And yet, when we find ourselves dancing sublimely in chaos, it is not ignorance that allows us to cradle burdens of past, nor the infinite possibilities that lay head. Rather, it is the acceptance of their power, a recognition of our own, and a peace found between the two. Somehow, by humbly embracing disarray, it seems to impart some of its potency into our being.
The dancers threaded their feet between dozens of knives and balls now decorating the stage, a detail that could never quiet be practiced to perfection. All the same, the pairs stepped over the occasionally protruding handle, they nudged a stray ball without making the movement appear improvised. In my hand was the final throwing knife. When I glanced at it, I realized I had not been imagining the strange sensation. My hands were soaked from the blood of dozens of tiny, careless cuts. The dancers were even dotted with it.
“How should we end it, though, if this is to be accomplished at all?” I had asked Saron.
“If you were watching it, what would you want to see?”
“I don’t think the audience will interpret it the way we intend,” I laughed. “Why not just put on something spectacular and forget the rest?”
“It doesn’t matter if they don’t see it the way we do. It’s only about the story. There’s always a story to tell, but it’s not our concern to question how it will be heard. Only how it is told, what is said. Thankfully, the rest is out of our hands. All you have to worry about, then, is what you wish to say. What memories, what thoughts you may reap from showing them things they’d never seen before, that isn’t our business.”
Just as they entered one by one, so one by one the dancers fell to the floor after they’d exhausted all of their streaming targets. Stagehands dressed entirely in black rushed to gutter half of the torches lighting the stage. By the time they’d returned behind the curtains, I’d been gently lowered to my feet at the center. And there with the remaining knife, I twirled it between wet fingers and threw it high. I bowed to a silent crowd. I anticipated the impact.
A few gasps. A breathable tension. The knife landed in my back, puncturing through the harness’ padding for the first time, just enough that I could feel its edge. And with a ponderous, exaggerated weight, I stumbled to my knee, my hands, and finally, onto my chest.
Not a beat after the thud, the dancers arose and rejoined hands to leap back into their swirling motions, if only but for a brief burst, now that the pernicious presence had vanished, that it had ceased its seemingly indomitable control over their movement. That it, itself, had breathed a temporary cessation.
The throngs cracked with applause.
The curtains slid together violently.
The stagehands came to sweep the floor.
The performance was over, but the night was not finished.
And where is Shamus?