by Cela Day
Show of Wonders
The Tale of Snow White, Retold
Cela Day
Show of Wonders
The Tale of Snow White, Retold
Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Cela Day
http://www.celaday.com/
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
More ‘Stories for the Quest’
About the Author
This story is dedicated to Mom and Dad, who first showed me a World of Wonders.
Chapter One
LIKE A GROVE OF TREES in a fairy forest, cotton candy swirled in clouds of pink and blue. The sweet-and-salty scents of taffy and buttered popcorn lingered in the air.
But above these tempting offerings the glossy apples gleamed, strung high overhead like gems on a necklace, their bright red candied sides glinting beneath the midway lights.
“Got your ticket, Princess?” Johnny, the silver-haired concession man, smiled at the girl before him. Her black hair was pulled back into a long braid, tied with a bright red bow. Her naturally pale skin seemed paler still against the dark shadows gathered behind her, just beyond reach of the midway lights.
The girl, whose name was Bianca, stood on tip-toe to hand Johnny her ticket. “Calling me ‘Princess’ seems kind of silly, Johnny.”
The old man smiled again as he tore the ticket in half. “Yet we all do, you know, since you’re the closest thing we’ll ever have on this show, seeing as your dad’s king of it. Okie-dokie! That ticket’s good for one mouth-wateringly delectable item from Johnny’s. What’ll it be?”
“A candied apple, please.”
Johnny’s eyes widened in mock astonishment.
“Surely freshly roasted peanuts, with all their crunchy goodness—”
“No, thank you.”
“Or cotton candy, the lightest, sweetest dream on a stick—”
“Nope!”
Johnny grinned as he plucked the biggest, reddest apple from the string and handed it over the counter with a flourish. “One candied apple it is.”
Bianca accepted it with a solemn “Thank you,” then added: “You know I always have an apple, Johnny.”
“True. But I can’t help thinking that one of these days, you’ll surprise me.”
Bianca grinned at him. “Maybe.”
A crash of cymbals sounded in the distance.
“Show’s starting, I’d better run!”
Bianca turned and jogged down the nearly empty midway. Paying customers had already disappeared under the big top to find their seats. She passed the entrance to the sideshow, where Twisty Stan the Flexible Man rubbed shoulders with the Great Incendio, Daring Eater of Flame, then scooted through the outer tent housing the menagerie. Breathing in musky, furry animal scents, she passed pens and cages where Stripes and Checks the zebras, Lana the llama, Charlie the chimp, and Leo the lion were on display before the show. The tent was empty now, for the animals were all lined up for the Grand Parade.
Finally Bianca reached the big top’s entrance, where Rudy the ticket-taker pointed inside at the straw lining the center ring. That meant they had a straw house: all seats taken by paying customers, with an overflow mostly of boys and young men sitting on the outside ring of the track where performers paraded before the show. There was less room to perform, but more money for payday, so no one ever minded a straw house.
Bianca slipped past the ring seats and slid to her knees in the straw, careful to hold her candied apple aloft so it wouldn’t get dirty. She’d seen the show before, of course—she’d been born on the show, it was the only life she’d ever known—but she never tired of watching it.
The band’s song ended and a drum roll sounded. The lights dimmed except for the great spotlight in the center of the ring.
The ringmaster stepped from the shadows into the light. His bright red tailcoat glowed; his shining black top hat and knee-high boots glinted; his white shirt and jodhpurs gleamed.
Papa’s so handsome, Bianca thought.
He raised both arms overhead, and the long black whip in his right hand cracked.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” His deep voice carried to the very edges of the enormous tent. “Boys and girls, lovers of spectacle and derring-do: welcome to our Show of Wonders! Tonight you will be enthralled by feats of skill and acts of courage you’ve never seen before! Tonight will be an experience you’ll never, ever forget!”
He paused, bowing his head for one brief moment. And then—
A single horn sounded a low note. The ringmaster lifted his face to the big top’s soaring pinnacle, cracked his whip, and shouted: “And now I give you—the Grand Parade!”
The band struck up a lively march. When the performers entered the big top, Bianca clapped as long and loudly as all the people who’d never seen the Show of Wonders before. With them she laughed at the clowns and cheered Mutt and Tex the Dancing Dogs. Together they gasped as the Flying Mancini Brothers swung far overhead from one trapeze to another, then watched breathlessly as Frederick the Fearless Lion-Tamer thrust his head between Leo’s gaping jaws.
Almost before Bianca knew it, her favorite moment arrived.
Once more Papa stepped into the spotlight in the center of the ring.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls: I give you the Amazing Anasophia, Defier of Gravity, Queen of the High Wire!”
The whip cracked once more and the spotlight vanished, plunging the big top into darkness. The crowd gasped, exhaling one great rush of shocked air. Bianca, who’d known it was coming, lifted her eyes upward just before a narrow spotlight winked on, revealing a beautiful woman standing alone on a platform anchored against a supporting pole forty feet above the ground.
The woman’s golden hair was piled high on her head beneath a sparkling tiara, and she wore a gold-sequined tutu with long skirts flowing from the waist like flower petals. She stood motionless: toes pointed, back arched, one elegant arm curving over her head. In her other hand she grasped a long, flexible pole.
She extended one slim leg and lowered a foot onto the wire. Then she swung the pole around, holding it horizontally before her in both hands as, with a dancer’s grace, she lifted her other foot from the platform. The whispering crowd hushed, every living soul beneath the big top on the edge of his or her seat as the beautiful woman stepped onto the wire.
One step, then another, and another—soon she was ten feet away from the platform. And then, amazingly, she dropped to her knees. Even as the crowd gasped she rose again and executed a perfect pirouette.
The Queen of the High Wire held her position for one long moment, motionless as a statue—then suddenly fell forward, face-first, the pole still clutched in her hands. Someone screamed as she dropped like a stone yet angled slightly to one side so her entire body swung all the way around the wire, beneath and then back up again, sup
ported by nothing but the long thin pole.
And there she was, upright again, posture perfect, but she was sitting on the wire now, one leg stretched before her and the other drifting down beside, like someone mounting a horse. Then somehow she was back on her feet, stepping forward again.
Now she was beneath the big top’s peak, standing perfectly still and lifting one leg behind her as she brought the pole close to her chest, like a sculpted ballerina captured in an impossible arabesque.
The crowd was utterly silent. Just as the tension stretched to the breaking point, the woman lifted her neck and arms higher and fell forward, flipping her entire body completely over in a spectacular cartwheel.
She landed on the wire on her knees.
Once more she rose and, stepping elegantly—one pointed foot and then the other dipping daintily below either side of the wire—finally reached the opposite platform.
The crowd broke into wild applause, cheering and pounding their feet on the seats in front of them.
Bianca clapped every bit as hard as the rest. She’d seen Anasophia’s performance before, but it never ceased to amaze her. For no one else was as brave or exciting as Anasophia.
Her beautiful, daring stepmother.
THE OLD HAG IN THE mirror was perfectly still, the wrinkled tips of her long thin fingers pressed against the inside of the glass. She’d been sitting just so, eyes tightly shut, for nearly a quarter of an hour.
The mirror in which the hag could be seen was full-length, its frame mounted on two sturdy claw-shaped feet. The frame’s smooth black wood reflected light from the single oil lantern that illuminated only the center of the tent, leaving most of it in darkness.
On the edge of the shadows Anasophia leaned forward in a high-backed, throne-like chair, staring at the hag imprisoned in the mirror.
“Well?” she said, impatience evident in her voice. “What do you see?”
The hag opened her eyes. Her face was scored by deep lines, like furrows left by a plow in sun-baked earth. The white hair on her head was sparse and limp.
But her black eyes were bright, as though lit by some flame deep within.
“I am weary of this mortal toil, cousin,” the hag said. “I yearn for release from this cursed glass.”
“The sooner you answer, the sooner you’ll rest,” Anasophia said. “Why complain to me? I care for your yearnings just as much as you once cared for mine!”
“You yearned for what was not yours: my beauty, and my throne.”
“If I have the power to take what I yearn for, then it is mine. Who can deny me? Not you. You will remain in that mirror and do as I command for as long as I wish!”
“For now, coz.” The hag grinned, revealing gaps between her blackened teeth. “Until the spell is broken.”
Anasophia’s perfect upper lip curled in a sneer.
“And who will break it? Not you! No one else knows the spell exists!”
“So you say. But you forget all things can change beneath a swift-burning sun.”
“Enough!” Anasophia snapped her fingers. “Tell me what you see of my future, and do not lie, or I shall veil you.”
The hag grimaced. Then her eyes closed and her ugly features went still again. When she spoke next, her voice had changed: instead of a thin, wheedling tone, she spoke with calm, firm assurance.
“I see you are queen of your realm. No one is as beautiful or adored as you. You hold all your people in the palm of your hand.”
Anasophia leaned back. Her grip on the chair’s arms relaxed and she smiled, her even white teeth glinting in the dim lamplight.
“Good,” she said. “Very good. That will be all.”
She rose, gathering the blanket she held on her lap into her arms.
The hag’s eyes were now wide open again. “For pity’s sake, do not leave me in darkness!”
Ignoring the frantic pleas of her prisoner, Anasophia threw the blanket over the mirror, smothering it. The hag’s sobs ended abruptly, as if shut off by a switch.
“That will teach you to defy me,” Anasophia said coldly. “Think on it until our next meeting, dear coz.”
Without another word, she turned and swept from the tent.
Chapter Two
THE HOUR BEFORE DAWN found the train bearing the Show of Wonders miles away from the small city where the circus had performed the night before. The train sounded its whistle and blew out a great steam-huff as it slowed before pulling onto a side rail for the next stop.
Bianca was still asleep. As always when the show was on the road, she’d been up late the night before. After the evening show ended the tents and equipment had to be torn down, the animals led into their stockcar stalls and bedded down, and everyone had to be packed back onto the train to travel all night to the next track-side city where the Show of Wonders would amaze a new audience the following day.
All of which meant Bianca was accustomed to sleeping in most mornings. So sleep she did—until a dull thud jolted her awake.
That thud wasn’t normal. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Her compartment was small, just big enough for her bunk and a set of drawers built into the wall. Gray light shone through a slit at the bottom of the shade covering the compartment’s window.
Normally when she woke the light was brighter. It must be very early, then.
Thud-thud-thud.
Even as Bianca heard Papa stumbling down the passage outside her compartment, she realized someone was pounding on the door to their car. But no one would do that this early unless something unusual was happening. She hoped it wasn’t anything bad.
She rolled out of her bunk and dressed quickly in her working clothes: an old white blouse and even older split skirt designed for riding. Then, taking up her riding jacket in one hand and her lace-up boots in the other, she made her way quietly into the passage.
To her right was the door to Papa’s compartment, which he shared with his new wife, Anasophia. They’d been married nearly a month now. Papa had been a widower for most of Bianca’s twelve years, ever since her mother died shortly after Bianca’s birth. Bianca had never thought Papa was unhappy, but since Anasophia joined the show four months ago just as the traveling season began he’d smiled more and seemed less burdened by his responsibility to keep the circus going and, as he always said, “Take care of my people.”
Still, Bianca had been surprised that Papa had fallen in love with Anasophia and married her so quickly. And despite the fact that they’d lived in the same car for nearly a month, Anasophia, although pleasant, still seemed distant to Bianca, like a stranger.
On Bianca’s left was the salon, where she and Papa and Anasophia sometimes ate private meals together after the evening show. The door to their car was between the salon and the tiny built-in galley.
Bianca slipped down the passage, stopping when she saw Papa talking with Mickey the menagerie man in the doorway. Papa’s back was to her, his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey’s face was creased with concern.
“—and that’s all he’d say. I told him I’m not in charge, but I’d ask you.”
Papa nodded. “Let’s go speak to him, together.”
The men went out, shutting the door behind them.
Hoping nothing was wrong with the animals, Bianca sat on the sofa to lace her boots.
The performers who worked with trained animals—such as Leo the Lion—took care of them as well, and were very fussy about who had contact with them. Bianca understood this was because the performers didn’t want the animals to be spoiled. But the animals that didn’t perform—other than to stand in the menagerie tent before the show, and march around the ring under the big top during the Grand Parade—were Mickey’s responsibility. And ever since he’d learned a few years earlier that Bianca loved animals like he did, he’d welcomed her assistance.
Even though she’d never known Anasophia to wake until well into the afternoon, Bianca moved as quietly as possible as she opened the car’s door. After stepping out and carefully c
losing it behind her, she jumped from the top step to the ground next to the tracks, breaking into a jog as she landed.
In the distance Papa and Mickey were heading toward the front of the train. To her right was the enormous chow tent; its flag wasn’t up yet, which meant Cookie and his helpers were still preparing breakfast.
She trotted along the tracks toward the stockcars hitched right behind the great steam engine, which let out an occasional chuff. The roustabouts had unloaded the menagerie tent and raised its poles, but the canvas sides weren’t up yet, which was unusual. Normally when the men started raising a tent they worked in one continuous burst until the job was done. But Bianca could see them all standing in a group, their attention focused on something. They looked like a crowd of ticket-holders on the midway, waiting for the big top to open.
Papa and Mickey passed into the crowd but Bianca circled around it instead, making her way along its edge to the front, where she came to a halt.
Finally, she could see for herself what everyone was staring at.
An elderly man in tattered work clothes stood several yards from the crowd’s edge. Such men weren’t unusual; they often wandered into the circus looking for a handout or a free glimpse of the show.
But this man stood out, because he had an elephant.
The great creature’s shoulders were higher than the old man’s head—at least nine or ten feet from the ground. The beast could easily crush him beneath one of her massive, stump-like feet, but he didn’t lead her by any rope or chain. He simply stood alongside her with his hand on one of her tree-trunk forelegs.
The elephant’s floppy ears lifted like twin sails in a stiff breeze. Then they flapped back against her great head, which wasn’t perfectly rounded: she looked as though giant hands had molded her from gray clay, leaving an enormous sloping thumbprint in her skull above each of her large, topaz-colored eyes.
Her trunk never seemed to stop moving, waving up and then down to the ground again, where she yanked out a few blades of grass. Instead of putting them in her mouth, she blew out her nostrils, scattering them.
