Eyes Like Stars

by Lisa Mantchev

  “What sort of foul spell was that?” he demanded.

  “It wasn’t me!” Bertie stood with a wince, though she had more to worry about than a few bruises on her elbows and bum. “Ariel’s tearing out the pages, and it’s destroying everything. A sandbag already tried to kill me.”

  “The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.” Prospero stroked his beard, trying to look wise.

  “Try telling Ariel that,” Mustardseed said.

  “Never mind that vengeance is more satisfying,” Moth muttered.

  “Tearing the pages out, you say?” Prospero asked.

  The walls shuddered again. Dust sifted over them as ancient boards shifted and settled.

  “He’s trying to free himself.” Goose bumps crawled down Bertie’s arms. “He was penned as your servant. Your slave. Maybe he can’t get his page out because you need to set him free?”

  “Pah!” Prospero’s exclamation involved quite a bit of spit. “You speak folly, girl-child. I set Ariel free every performance.”

  “It’s not enough for him.” Bertie wanted to scream and stamp her foot at him, but with her shoes off, there wasn’t really a point. “He wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”

  “Mostly to go,” Peaseblossom said.

  “Ah.” The word rolled out of the wizard like an incantation. “Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”

  “Please,” Bertie implored, “just use whatever magic you have to release him.”

  Prospero held up his hand in a gesture intended to command the attention of the audience, to halt the breath in every chest. “Graves, at my command, have waked their sleepers, opened, and let them forth!”

  “Big deal,” Cobweb said. “Everyone in a grave here is a Player!”

  “Then I shall raise the dead elsewhere.” Prospero marched to the edge of the stage and took a suicidal leap into the orchestra pit.

  “Wait!” Bertie called. “Where are you going?”

  He strode up the red-carpeted runner. “I would see the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself!”

  “No, no, no!” Bertie shrieked. “You’re taking that line out of context!”

  “Yeah!” yelled Moth. “The next bit is about it all being an insubstantial pageant!”

  “And such stuff dreams are made on!” Peaseblossom said. “The outside world isn’t about dreams!”

  “Not good ones, at least,” Cobweb said.

  But Prospero didn’t mark them as he shoved open the door under the green Exit sign. Blinding white light cut through the semi-gloom, and everyone blinked at it as the outer doors revolved with whispers. The lobby door slammed shut, and Prospero was gone.

  Bertie closed her eyes and shuddered. “How far do you think Ariel’s gotten? Tearing out the pages, I mean.”

  “I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first!” screamed an offstage voice. The words were followed by one of Bertie’s shoes, launched at the head of a laughing man in a shabby crimson doublet.

  “The Taming of the Shrew, I think,” said Peaseblossom.

  Petruchio kissed his fist and waved it at the disembodied voice screaming epithets at him in Italian. “Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own!” When he turned to Bertie, his expression altered not a whit. After an elaborate bow, he grasped her by the hand and pulled her close. “But ho, what a comely lass waits here. Perhaps you are a flower waiting to be plucked.”

  Bertie turned thirty shades of red and wondered just what he would do if she slapped him a good one across his florid cheek. She tried to withdraw her imprisoned hand. “I think perhaps your attention is misplaced.”

  Petruchio only leered harder, if that were possible, and leaned close, ruddy whiskers all abristle and breath reeking of cheap wine. “Kiss me, little flower, and let me sup of your sweet nectar.”

  Two great, beefy lips headed for Bertie’s cheek. Recalling the Mistress of Revels and her jujitsu skills, Bertie screamed, “Kee-yaw!” and drove her foot sideways into his kneecap. Petruchio’s leg, unappreciative of the onslaught, went out from underneath him at what appeared to be a most uncomfortable angle. The fairies cheered while Bertie stared at the writhing Player, both appalled and impressed by the outcome of her defensive maneuver.

  “Let that serve as a reminder to you,” she said, “to mind your damn manners.”

  “Strumpet!” Petruchio cried, struggling back to his feet. “Spongy milk-livered canker blossom! Jarring dog-hearted flirt-gill!”

  “Wow,” Moth said in appreciation.

  Encouraged by the feedback, Petruchio added, “Currish rude-growing baggage!”

  Bertie towered over him when she stood up straight. “That’s enough name-calling from you, pipsqueak.”

  Still muttering all manner of ill-natured insults, Petruchio hobbled from the stage, down the runner, and jerked open the Exit door. He, too, disappeared into the blinding light, no doubt in search of a blossom more amenable to sharing her nectar.

  Another shudder underfoot. The fountain pen, forgotten in the interim, rolled onstage and came to rest by Bertie’s stocking-clad toes. She bent to pick it up, her mind fuzzy with shock, adrenaline, and despair, but then an idea flared like a white-hot spotlight. “I need more paper.”

  “Another note?” Moth said with a groan.

  “No,” Bertie said as her thoughts tumbled over each other like drunken acrobats. “Another script. I can’t change what’s been done, but if I write down what I want to happen, it might come true!”

  “The Players do what’s in the script.” Peaseblossom sucked in her breath.

  Bertie paced the length of the stage, unable to keep still. “I’ll do it the same as I did for my own play. It really isn’t any different from How Bertie Came to the Theater, right?”

  “Sure!” Moth said, covering his head. “Well, except where the bits of the ceiling keep falling on us.”

  “No need to add the potholes this time,” Cobweb said. “I think Ariel’s got the destruction angle covered.”

  “Just try to do better than you did on the script for the tango scene,” Moth said, “because that didn’t work out very well for anyone.”

  Bertie staggered to a halt. Caught up in the chase, she’d banished the horror of Sedna’s appearance and Nate’s kidnapping to the farthest recesses of her brain. Pain flared up at the memory, and for a moment Bertie thought that she might be sick all over the stage. “Nate—”

  “Focus!” Peaseblossom smacked her lightly on the cheek. “Recover The Book, then we’ll think of a way to get Nate back. You’ll have to keep your wits about you. This will be a sword fight, but with words.”

  “Even if Ariel doesn’t show up for the duel,” Bertie said, her pen at the ready, “I have to try to guide what happens next, without plague, pestilence, or potholes.”

  The fairies took up the rallying cry with gusto. “No potholes!”

  “Peaseblossom, bring up a spotlight! Boys, go find the clipboard!”

  “Got it!”

  Bertie uncapped the pen with suddenly sweaty hands and caught the clipboard as they flung it at her. She braced it against a knee, her words a scrawl, but she didn’t consider penmanship overly important at a time like this.

  The lights fade up on a forgotten

  corner of the stage. A figure lurks

  behind the transparent scrim curtain.

  One by one, he pulls the pages

  from a purloined tome.

  A ripping noise.

  The stage heaved as though it rode upon the back of an enormous, bucking horse. Bertie’s pen flew out of her hand and vanished into the darkness that lay in wait for her beyond the spotlight. At the far back of the stage, an indistinct figure manifested.

  “Write faster!” Peaseblossom urged from the wings.

  “I can’t! I dropped the pen!”

  “It’s over
here!” Cobweb yelled, shoving it back into the light.

  Bertie snatched it up and scribbled as fast as she could.

  An angry mob convenes onstage;

  as one, they surround him.

  There was shouting, followed by scuffling noises and the sound of an ill-whipped wind. But louder than anything else was the continued destruction of The Book. The rip and tear filled Bertie’s head until she could hardly think. Somewhere far below the stage, the very earth screamed in protest.

  The madman tries to fight them,

  but finds his powers diminished from

  the harm he has already caused.

  The crowd overwhelms him and binds

  his hands with twine.

  Ariel’s wind faded and died a quiet death. Bertie could make out other sounds now: the chants for justice, the heavy breathing of a captured animal.

  As one, they bring the

  criminal to stand trial.

  The scrim parted to reveal Ariel surrounded by the members of both Choruses. They’d bound his arms behind his back; his head lolled forward, and for a moment, Bertie wondered if they’d killed him.

  Not that she’d care. “Where’s The Book?”

  The crowd parted to make a path. The lighting shifted to a single beam cast from above.

  “I tried to warn you.” Ophelia stepped forward, carrying The Book in her hands.

  “You told him how to destroy it!” Bertie shouted at her. “This is your fault!”

  Ophelia opened the leather cover as a single tear ran down her pale cheek. “There’s only one page left.”

  “No!” Bertie shook her head, lifted the clipboard, and struggled to scrawl different words across the paper. “That’s not in my script. I can change it.”

  “Blackout,” Ophelia said as she was thrown into darkness.

  “Blackout,” the others echoed before they, too, disappeared.

  “Damn it, no!” Bertie couldn’t see to write any more, but still she moved her pen across the paper. “No, not yet!”

  She tried to change the ending, tried to write the pages back into their resting place, tried to write Ariel’s bloody, violent death by her own hands, but the only word she could manage was:

  BLACKOUT

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pins and

  Poking-Sticks

  of Steel

  When the house lights came up, Bertie took what remained of The Book from Ophelia, tracing her hand over the cover and noting the lack of weight, the sense of insignificance and utter inconsequence. Her heart cried out against what she already knew was true:

  He managed to destroy it.

  Everyone took a step away from Ariel, as though afraid the heat from Bertie’s murderous gaze might spill over and burn them, too.

  “I couldn’t get my page out.” Ariel spoke softly. “All the other pages came out, each with greater ease than the last. Why was my own impossible?”

  Bertie’s hand, the one holding her pen, twitched. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “I failed.” The words fell like drops into an empty bucket. “I wanted to be free, but The Book would not release me.”

  With a noise like white thunder, a gilt cherub toppled off the wall next to the stalls. Cracks ran rampant through wood and plaster, reaching across the floor and walls with covetous fingers.

  “At least I managed one thing,” Ariel said. “The Théâtre will fall.”

  Bertie wanted him to beg for mercy. She wanted him to weep and cry out for forgiveness. She wanted him humbled and groveling, just so she could deny him. She would bring him down low, but to do so, she would have to keep the ceiling from caving in upon them.

  Clutching the leather cover of The Book against her chest, Bertie closed her eyes and forced herself to think of paper. Of trees. The scenery changed without anyone touching the headset, the lights shifting to reveal a grove of ancient oaks. Immense roots crept over the stage; Bertie could feel them extend into the very heart of the theater and farther still into the earth. Massive trunks and branches reached through the darkness overhead to stay the destruction.

  Bertie opened her eyes to consider him. “I should kill you now, Ariel. Slowly. By inches. In the most painful way I can imagine.”

  “Carve his heart out with a sword,” suggested Moth.

  “A poison-tipped one,” said Mustardseed.

  “A slow poison,” intoned Peaseblossom, “that will turn his guts to black oozing liquid while he begs us to put him out of his misery.”

  “Then slice his belly open and stir his innards with an iron rod,” said Cobweb.

  Ariel’s breath came out in spurts and sputters. “Bloodthirsty little imps, aren’t they?”

  “They’re being merciful, in my opinion,” Bertie said. “The trouble is that I don’t think it’s possible for you to die.” The fairies clamored for retribution, but she held up her hand for silence. “Just because he cannot be killed doesn’t mean he won’t be punished. Someone bring me a sword.”

  It appeared within seconds, fetched by a member of the Chorus. Men and women alike now wore dark robes with hoods drawn up. Shadows obscured their faces, and they formed a half-circle to witness the tribunal. One held the scabbard as Bertie unsheathed the weapon, and metal-song rang in the stillness.

  Ariel shuddered then, an involuntary reaction that satisfied her only for an instant. Holding what was left of The Book close to her chest, Bertie brought the blade up to rest cold steel against his neck.

  It’s time for another sort of tango.

  “Where are the pages, Ariel?”

  “I destroyed them,” he said.

  The hooded figures murmured their disbelief while the leaves in the massive trees rustled a protest. The scrimshaw hummed as Bertie leaned in close enough to delicately sniff him. Sweat and desperation slicked his skin, carrying something fetid on a moisture-thick breeze.

  “You smell of lies, Ariel.”

  “I swear upon my life, I destroyed them.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word. Now kneel.”

  He did as he was told in a fluid motion that should have been impossible with his hands bound behind him.

  Bertie put a foot against his back, shoving until his cheek kissed the stage. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay down.”

  Anticipation rippled through the gathered crowd. Bertie motioned to the nearest pair of hooded figures and handed her sword to the larger of the two.

  “If he so much as inhales with too much enthusiasm, slit his throat. It might not kill him, but it will certainly slow him down.”

  “Threaten all you like, but the pages are gone.” Ariel twisted about to smile at her. “You won’t ever get them back.”

  She might have panicked at the idea, except he’d tipped his hand. “You said that you destroyed them.”

  “I scattered them on the winds,” he said.

  Bertie moved in front of him and held the medallion up so he could see it. “Do you see this, Ariel? This piece of bone cost me Nate. He’s gone, stolen from this place, because he wanted me to be safe, because he wanted me to look past the surface to what lies beneath. So I’m going to do just that. I’m going to strip away your every lie.”

  Not waiting for his protests or promises, Bertie knelt in front of him with the medallion warm between her fingers. She looked past the delicate features, the composure and grace, to stare into the liquid black of his pupils. In the dark, she found the soul-winds he rode, peeled back the currents like so much gift wrap, and there she spotted the windmill.

  “Oh, Ariel.” Bertie managed a short laugh at his cleverness before issuing her command. “Call in the Man of La Mancha set.”

  “No!” he cried out.

  “Not another word,” Bertie said as she stood, “or I’ll burn your butterflies to ash. Spirits of the air wouldn’t take kindly to fire.”

  He made a choking noise of protest but didn’t speak again.

  Peaseblossom peered in
to the flies. “What about the trees? They’re holding the ceiling up.”

  “Keep them in the background,” Bertie said. “We can’t risk moving them out completely.”

  The canopy of branches overhead parted, permitting an enormous windmill to descend. It landed with a hollow thud. The impact sent a spiral of cracks skittering along the wooden floor, though long, luxuriant grasses soon obscured the fault lines. The stalks swayed in the breeze as the windmill began to rotate.

  Bertie clasped The Book to her chest and held her breath. “Please let this work. Please.”

  Everyone waited. Another rotation of the windmill’s sails marked the passing seconds like a madhouse clock. Bertie’s hair unfurled over her shoulders and gathered in snarls. Caught in the same breeze, a single piece of golden paper fluttered down from the windmill and tumbled across the stage. It glowed with its own faint but undeniable light. Bertie leapt upon it and scanned the words:

  ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. ACT I, SCENE I.

  “It’s a page from The Book.” Her words spread like wildfire through the dry grasses as everyone took up the whisper. A second page fluttered down. Bertie caught it mid-flight and unfolded it.

  LONDON. A GALLERY IN THE PALACE.

  “This one’s from Henry the Eighth!” Bertie smoothed it out and placed it with the other one as dozens of pages fluttered loose from the windmill’s sails. “We need to gather all of them! But be careful!”

  Everyone shed their cloaks and set to work.

  “Mr. Hastings would love this,” Moth said, dropping three more pages on Bertie’s head.

  “We might have to get him up here. This is ridiculous.” At first Bertie tried to identify each page and sort them into some semblance of order, but she gave up as the pile in her arms grew. “All these couldn’t have fit in The Book.”

  “That was part of the magic,” Peaseblossom acknowledged, then broke off to yell, “Cobweb, stop trying to tip that thing over! You’re only supposed to tilt at it.”