Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

A troublesome spirit, indeed.

  Onstage, Julius Caesar and Marc Antony now jabbed at each other with their daggers while a gang war broke out in the orchestra pit between the Capulets and Montagues.

  “Nate?” Bertie called.

  The pirate moved forward. “What would ye have me do, lass? Cut their throats?”

  She shook her head, much as she would have liked to see punishments liberally administered. “There’s too many of them, besides which I need them intact.”

  “They came prepared fer a fight,” Nate observed. “Goin’ so far as t’ bring blood packs an’ false limbs.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Bertie said, wishing she could hit someone. “How are we going to restage a play if we can’t even get through the announcement without bloodshed?”

  “Better to give up the idea. They’ll never agree to it.” The Stage Manager pushed his mop through the mêlée, moving from one sticky pool of red corn syrup to another and looking smug.

  Bertie wondered if he was right as the Chorus Girls alternated between screams of dismay over the red flecks on their skirts and calls of encouragement to the brawlers.

  “They need a good coolin’ off,” said Nate.

  It took a moment to process the suggestion, but then Bertie smiled and signaled to the fairies. They stopped tormenting Oberon and Titania long enough to hear her whispered request. Hooting with laughter, they departed in the direction of the Properties Department.

  Bertie turned back to Nate. “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

  “Aye.” His mouth twitched with the promise of a hearty laugh.

  Bertie shoved her way through a set of dueling Dukes to reach the Stage Manager. “I need a scene change,” she said without preamble.

  Startled, he jumped almost a foot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did I stutter? I said I need a scene change. Let’s try an evening in London.” When he didn’t answer right away, Bertie tapped her foot once, twice. “Shall I get the headset and do it myself?”

  The Stage Manager winced at the suggestion. “No need. I can make things as you like them.”

  “Oh, I like them. Cue up a nice drizzle, too.”

  The Stage Manager stomped off into the wings, muttering and waving his arms over his head. Bertie returned to the front of the stage in time to meet the fairies with their brightly colored burden. She accepted the cherry-red umbrella and popped it open mere seconds before cobblestones appeared and the stage clouded with a lovely pea-soup fog.

  Nate joined Bertie under her shelter, his broad shoulders protecting her from stray splashes as rain, ice-cold and miserable, began to fall. It dampened the battle-spark of those brawling onstage, and soon the Players fighting in the auditorium turned to gawk.

  “Lamplight, please,” Bertie called. “And cleanup!”

  The gas lamps flickered to life as the rain-doused shivered. The main trapdoor Center Stage opened and water, fake blood, and one of the minor Players sluiced through.

  “Disorderly conduct will not be tolerated,” Bertie said in a bright, conversational tone. “The Players in Hamlet will re-convene at one P.M. for our first rehearsal.”

  There was coughing and the shuffling of feet, but no one offered any further words of challenge or resistance.

  “Nicely done,” Nate murmured. “Ye shot right across their bows. Now let’s see if they’ll heave to.”

  Bertie nodded to the Stage Manager. “I think we can turn off the rain now.”

  “Send them on their way, lass,” Nate whispered, taking the umbrella, “afore they have a chance t’ question ye again.”

  “You’re dismissed,” Bertie said with a majestic wave of her hand.

  The working lights clicked on as the London scenery flew out. The Players scattered, some pausing by the refreshment table to take a soggy pastry or a cup of watered-down coffee with them. The Stage Manager shooed them away so that he could shove everything into the wings, pausing to give Bertie and her assistants an over-the-shoulder dirty look.

  Ophelia followed him, wringing the water out of her clothes while still talking to puppet-Laertes. “I spend far too much time toweling off, dear brother.” But the oven mitt didn’t answer, as its mouth was full of her skirt.

  Which left Bertie onstage with Nate. The fairies.

  And Ariel.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Still

  Waters

  Haven’t ye caused enough misery fer one day?” Nate unsheathed his cutlass and pointed it at Ariel. “I’ve half a mind t’ save us some trouble an’ slit yer throat afore ye can do more harm.”

  “Bring your lapdog to heel, Bertie.” The clouds in Ariel’s eyes manifested in a wind that tugged at his hair and white silk sleeves. “Perhaps then we can have a civil conversation.”

  “I don’t recall askin’ ye fer yer thoughts, ye scurvy bilge-suckin’ spirit.” Anger vibrated in Nate’s chest and emanated outward until even Bertie’s timbers were shivered. “Shut yer gob.”

  “What?” Even Moth, who was fluent in pirate-speak, had trouble with that one.

  “Shut your mouth,” said Peaseblossom.

  “Geez, I was just asking!” Moth said, thoroughly offended.

  “Put the sword away, Nate,” Bertie said. “Please. We just got the stage cleaned up.”

  He only lowered the weapon. “Scum-ridden weevil shagger.”

  “Ooh!” Mustardseed grinned. “I’ll have to remember that one!”

  “The company you keep, Bertie!” Ariel’s wind chased away the last of the London fog. “To think Mrs. Edith considered me the bad influence.”

  Blue tendrils of hair whipped Bertie’s face. “What is it you want, Ariel?”

  When his only answer was a smile, she reached for the reassuring weight of the scrimshaw. Without calling for a scene change, she stood on a precipice, above an ocean that covered everything in ever-shifting blue currents. Held aloft by all the winds of the world, Ariel reached out his hand to her, enticing her with promises, tempting her with freedom . . .

  . . . trying to draw her over the edge. Either he didn’t understand what he asked of her, or he didn’t care.

  He’s air and I’m earth. I could try to fly with him, but I’d only fall.

  Far below them both, Nate treaded water. He didn’t call to her, didn’t even beckon, but she knew without asking that he, too, wanted her to jump.

  If I fall, the ocean will catch me.

  The unbidden thought struck Bertie between the collarbones. She let go of the medallion and stepped back from both cliffs and sea. The ocean’s roar faded, as did the winds, until she found solid footing on the wooden boards of the stage. “Get to the point, Ariel.”

  “I stand before you on my best behavior, Mademoiselle Director,” he said with another one of his courtly bows. “I present myself for inspection and place my considerable knowledge and ser vices at your disposal.”

  “Easier t’ slip a dagger between her ribs if yer standin’ close, eh?” Nate said.

  “Ariel doesn’t need anything so common as a dagger,” Bertie said with mock solemnity. “His weapons are far more subtle.”

  “Subterfuge,” said Cobweb.

  “Artifice,” said Moth.

  “Lies and tricks and sleight of hand,” said Mustardseed.

  “Such big words from ones so small.” Ariel shrugged lightly, a slight motion under silk. He wore the same immaculate clothes as always, his features were arranged in the same beautiful mask, but with the medallion still warm against her skin, Bertie could see hairline cracks radiate like spiderwebs across his surface. His winds were yet contained, but something had warmed them with hope, something that carried the promise of spring after a harsh, icy winter.

  Suddenly, Bertie knew why he tried to charm her with pretty smiles and words like sugar candy. “You saw things could be changed.”

  The rest of Ariel’s mask splintered under the accusation, permitting his winds to escape in triumph. “Yes. Just as I knew they could be.”


  “I had nothing to do with Ophelia’s unexpected performance,” Bertie said. “Take it up with her. Or better yet, try it for yourself. Maybe you can shuffle right off to Buffalo, if you want it badly enough.”

  “Only when you order the changes do they happen.” Words conspired with winds to wrap cloud-tendrils about Bertie’s wrists and tow her toward him. “Somehow you’re the one that makes it so.”

  Nate caught Bertie around the waist in the span of two heartbeats—his and hers—as his cutlass came up again. This time, the tip dug into the white skin of Ariel’s throat. “Let’s see if ye bleed like any other man.”

  No one moved. Bertie wondered if either Nate or Ariel breathed, so hard were they staring at each other. She put her right hand over Nate’s and pushed down until the cutlass swung away. A crimson stain bloomed on Ariel’s collar.

  Nate smiled. “So ye can.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Bertie said. “I’ve had a difficult enough morning without refereeing another brawl. I need a shower and a decent breakfast. Definitely more coffee. And then maybe—just maybe!—I might have the fortitude to deal with you, Ariel. Until then, stay out of my hair.”

  “Yes, I see you have enough going on in that department.” Ariel gave the top of her head a pointed glance. “Are you going to call in the ocean set again or use an actual bathtub?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” mocked Cobweb.

  “Pervert!” yelled Mustardseed.

  “None of your business,” Bertie said. “Now, I suggest you find something to do with your time that doesn’t involve sabotaging my production.”

  Ariel managed a wounded look, aided by his bloodied throat and deathly pallor. “My dear—”

  “She’s not yer dear,” interrupted Nate. “Sod off.”

  “Yeah! Sod off!” Moth shook his fist for emphasis.

  “Very well.” Ariel gathered his winds about him like a cloak and disappeared through a trapdoor.

  “He does know how to make a dramatic exit,” Mustardseed said. “You have to give him that.”

  “I don’t have t’ give him a thing, save a knife through th’ ribs.” Nate spat on the stage. “Th’ son o’ a parrot eater.”

  “Son of a parrot eater,” Moth repeated. “Is that bad or good?”

  “Buggered if I know!” Cobweb said.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. We are done being pirates,” said Peaseblossom. “We’re Assistant Directors now, and Assistant Directors do not bugger anything.”

  “Fat lot you know,” said Mustardseed. “They bugger lots of things! They bugger left and right and every which way in between.”

  Nate nudged her. “Ye were gettin’ a shower.”

  “Are you implying that I stink?” Bertie turned her nose in the direction of her armpit and sniffed gently. “Phew. Never mind. I do stink.”

  “We didn’t want to say anything,” said Moth. “But yes, you’re a little ripe.”

  “So, do you want a shower in the Ladies’ Dressing Room or something that will annoy the Stage Manager?” asked Peaseblossom.

  Bertie pretended to contemplate her options. “Who wants to join me in a Turkish Bath?”

  “I’ll get the headset!” Peaseblossom hollered.

  Nate frowned. “Won’t ye get in trouble fer a scene change?”

  “I’m a Director now,” Bertie said with a grin as an enormous dome lowered from the flies. “I say it’s research.”

  A large marble pool spiraled up from below-stage. A dozen fountains, each spurting warm water, slid into place along the back wall, which was decorated with an elaborate mosaic.

  Nate gazed at the swirling picture rendered in stone, marble, and glass with something akin to awe. “That’s th’ Greek Chorus. What’s it doin’ in a Turkish Bath?”

  Bertie spared it a glance. “All conquering empires have bath houses.” She kicked off her slippers as the final set decoration, an enormous water clock, landed Downstage Left. “And before you ask, that’s Greek, too. Mr. Hastings told me what it was . . . a long word . . . starts with c . . .” She snapped her fingers and came up with “Clepsydra.”

  “A water thief.” Nate walked around it to better admire the doors and windows, spinning pointers and dials. “How’d ye remember such a mouthful?”

  “I like a big word now and then.” With great affection, Bertie reached out to pat the huge, elaborate thing, which already dripped the ancient precursor to tick-tock.

  “Seems like a lot o’ work for a bath,” Nate said. “D’ye do this often?”

  “No,” Bertie said. “The steam is hard on the ceiling murals.” On cue, vapor poured in from both sides of the stage.

  “Whoo!” yelled Moth. “Time to get naked!”

  Nate took a step back. “Er . . . perhaps I ought t’ be goin’ now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bertie. “You could probably use a bath, too.”

  He shook his head. “Pirates don’t really bathe.”

  “Liar. You wash all the time with seawater, and this is more pleasant, I promise.” Bertie paused to peer at him. “Are you blushing?”

  “No!”

  “Yes, you are.” Bertie grinned so hard that she stretched muscles in her toes. “Don’t be such a prude! I promise not to look.”

  As Nate hesitated, Mustardseed flew between them, divested of pants and tunic. His tiny, naked butt disappeared into the steam as he cried, “Wheeeee! Balls out!”

  “I think that’s a rugby reference,” Bertie said. “But don’t quote me on that.”

  Nate shifted from one booted foot to the other. “Pirates don’t play rugby, an’ I don’t think—”

  “No, you really don’t, so I’m not wasting any more time or hot water standing here arguing with you.” Bertie turned toward the pool and pulled her shirt off.

  “By all th’ hells!” Nate ducked his head, presumably to give her some privacy.

  Her pajama pants, socks, and underwear followed. “Should I take the scrimshaw off before I get in?”

  “ ‘Th’ bath isn’t filled wi’ saltwater, is it?” he muttered, eyes still averted as a flush crawled up the nape of his neck.

  “Nope.” Bertie pinned her hair atop her head so the dye wouldn’t turn the bathwater blue.

  “Then leave it on. Ye need all th’ protection ye can get right about now.”

  “If that’s true, maybe you oughtn’t leave me alone, so helpless and vulnerable.” Bertie slid into the soaking pool. “Anyway, you were going to explain about the necklace and the Sea Witch.”

  “Th’ Sea Goddess, Bertie. Fer all that ye muck about wi’ th’ Little Mermaid set, ye should know about Sedna.” There was a sigh, followed by the sound of his cutlass hitting the stage and the slither of linen that signaled he’d started disrobing.

  Bertie caught sight of his bare shoulders as the steam shifted Stage Right. She had only a moment to admire them before the mist obscured her view, but that was more than enough to appreciate the fine lines of a nicely put-together man. Wondering if being in close, naked proximity to Nate was such a brilliant idea after all, she cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on innocuous things. “So enlighten me.”

  “Sedna was a princess once, in love wi’ a young man.” Two thumps that Bertie presumed were his boots being removed and tossed aside.

  “That sounds promising.” Bertie forced her muscles to relax as the heat of the water seeped inward.

  The surface of the soaking pool shifted when Nate slid in at the other end. “She eloped wi’ him, but her father came fer her an’ dragged her back. Halfway across th’ ocean, he threw her into th’ sea.”

  Bertie flinched, both at the gruesome turn of events and at the water splashed in her face by the frolicking fairies. “That’s worse than King Lear. At least he only disowned Cordelia.”

  “Ye haven’t even heard th’ worst o’ it,” Nate said, his tone grim. “When Sedna held on to th’ sides o’ th’ boat an’ begged fer her life, her father chopped her fingers
off, one at a time.”

  “That’s revolting!” Mustardseed said, sounding utterly delighted.

  Moth swam the backstroke past a barely visible Nate. “Then what happened?”

  “Her fingers drifted away through th’ water, some becomin’ animals, an’ others goin’ missin’.” The pirate sat in silence for a moment. “I used t’ dream o’ her. Most sailors do. She calls t’ us in our sleep; hers is a song filled wi’ loneliness an’ longin’. She offers us jewels an’ gold if only we’ll go t’ her. Comb her hair. Rub her hands where th’ phantom fingers pain her.”

  Bertie watched the medallion drift through the water, the Théâtre’s façade wavering like a naiad’s dreams. “You said the scrimshaw was carved from a piece of her bone. How could you tell?”

  He shuddered, sending ripples through the pool as though someone had cast a stone into the deep end. “It was like holdin’ a shell up t’ my ear. Th’ sea called t’ me through it.”

  “But how is it supposed to protect me? Because I know you didn’t mean it to be just a good-luck charm.”

  “Sedna learned, in th’ hardest o’ ways, t’ look beyond th’ surface o’ a man, t’ see what hopes an’ dreams an’ fears lay nestled in his heart o’ hearts. There are secrets here, hidin’ behind th’ lights an’ th’ playactin’. I want ye t’ beware those who are not as they appear.” The pool stirred again, and the steam had evaporated just enough for Bertie to make out Nate’s silhouette as water sluiced off his shoulders. “I’m not certain a cannon misfire is th’ only reason th’ Theater Manager wants ye gone.”

  Bertie knew she should avert her eyes but found she couldn’t. “He’s giving me a chance to stay. Stop being over-protective!”

  “It’s not yer job t’ give me orders, fer all yer a Director now. I’ll do what I can t’ keep ye safe.”

  “Why?” Bertie persisted.

  “None o’ yer business, missy.”

  “Don’t you ‘missy’ me. You’re barely old enough to grow a decent set of whiskers.”

  Nate made a rude noise. “If yer goin’ t’ be insultin’, I’m fer shore.”

  Bertie made a point of squinting at his chest. “That’s an interesting tattoo.”