No one waited outside, so Opal opened the door and led Corvus down the steps. His hand on her shoulder was warm again, but he squeezed her and let go at the base of the stairs. “I don’t know what it is,” he said, “but I can see better today. Thanks for your help.”
The construction crew had built a mock-up of the forest altar on the soundstage inside the old supermarket, so they didn’t have far to go.
This shoot had a bigger budget than most of the other movies Opal had worked on. She felt a brief pang for previous pictures, when, as chief makeup assistant, she had had more to do, helping out with makeup for everybody from the stars to the extras. Even though she loved Corvus, it was a pain being attached to one person; everybody else got variety in their work.
The crew had been out in the forest all day shooting a flashback to Serena’s earlier life, when she had participated in the demonic rituals of her mother’s coven in the forest, summoning the Dark God. Splices of Corvus’s image from the previous day’s filming would be cut in later. Gemma Goodwin, a fourteen-year-old child actor, was playing ten-year-old Serena.
People were already complaining about Aldridge in corners during meal breaks, though Opal thought he had been businesslike on the set yesterday. People said he was a stickler for getting done on time, whether it was quality work or not, and he had a reputation for reducing people to tears by yelling at them. It was part of his theory about getting the best performance out of an actor: break them down completely until he could build them back in the form he desired. Corvus wasn’t his first choice for monster. Aldridge had a protégé he had wanted to use, but the studio executives had overruled him.
They crossed the parking lot toward the abandoned supermarket. Under a canopy tent that made the old parking lot look like a garden party, the stand-ins smoked or drowsed or played computer games at a picnic table. The red light over the door to the building was off; no filming was happening at the moment. They passed a security guard on their way into the chilly building, then headed over to the clutter that wasn’t one of the sets, a hanging clothing rack, stacks of flats full of bottled water, masses of Medusa wires coiling across the floor and dangling from the ceiling, and all the canvas chairs with actors’, producers’, and directors’ names on them. The director’s, assistant director’s, and producer’s chairs huddled on a platform a short distance from the cast’s chairs.
Opal and Corvus went to Corvus’s specially constructed chair. She helped him settle into it and got him the novel he was reading, complete with its own book light; the waiting area was indifferently lighted. A few of the other actors were there, sipping water; Rod and Magenta perched in chairs with absent actors’ names on them.
Opal went back outside to the Craft Services trailer to fetch a couple of the butterscotch protein shakes for Corvus, then returned and wandered over to the Props department monitor, a small black-and-white TV that showed the view through whichever camera was hot on the set. The camera was focused on a table topped with a doily, with a lamp sitting on it. The light was made from an old brass carriage lamp. Opal hugged herself. She had forgotten how cold they kept it on the soundstage to offset the melting heat of the lights.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said a stocky older man, his hair solid, grease-tamed gray, his face set in a wide smile like a frog’s.
“What’s going on?”
“Wait for it, wait for it,” he said. Someone put a small, carved wooden box beside the lamp, angled it sideways, held a Polaroid next to it and moved it again. “Excitement unlimited!”
“That’s the magic box?” Opal asked. The script mentioned a magic box, left by the dead mother at the bed-and-breakfast, discovered by the two daughters when they returned after an absence of years. The box held the key to unlocking the daughters’ magical natures. It was made of some varnished wood, and the figures carved into it were geometric rather than representational. Inlaid diamonds of mother-of-pearl gleamed under the light.
“That’s the magic box. You like? Say, who are you, anyway?”
She held out her hand, and he shook it. “Opal LaZelle. Special effects makeup.” She hitched a shoulder toward Corvus.
“Joe Lazarus, prop master.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
A bell rang. “Roll sound,” called someone. “Rolling,” called someone else. “Roll camera.” “Rolling.” A clapperboard showing production, scene, take, roll, date, sound, director, and cameraman came into view on their screen. Someone bumped it. It pulled out of frame. “Action!”
Opal stood beside Joe and watched as a slender hand moved into the shot, rested on the box a moment, then slipped it out of frame. Blaise Penny, as Caitlyn Lost, the younger sister, was stealing the box.
“Cut,” cried a voice. Two bells rang.
“Sixth time he’s done that one,” Joe muttered. “Is it over yet?”
“And print! Break, everybody. Ready set two for scene nineteen!” one voice called, and a second voice echoed it. Activity surged around another part of the soundstage, and the sound of hammering and an electric saw.
“Better scoot,” said Joe. He headed into the storm of activity around the forest altar set.
Opal went back to the gathering of canvas-backed chairs. Corvus’s oversized chair had accompanied him from Dead Loss. While he was on the set, Opal curled up in his chair, but now she settled into the chair assigned to Blaise. Blaise wasn’t going to be in the scene with Corvus and Lauren, so she would probably quit for the day. If not, Opal would move. This might be a good time to take a set temperature, see how Blaise treated the help. Lauren was friendly, which was good to know.
“Stand-ins,” yelled someone. Corvus’s stand-in, Fred, and Lauren’s stand-in headed for the set, a tall man in a black robe and a compact woman in brown blouse and jeans.
“How you doing?” Opal asked Corvus, who sprawled in his chair, his hood low over his face, his altered hands sticking out the ends of his black sleeves, the leafy fingers curled under into loose fists. The novel she had brought him earlier lay closed on his lap.
“Strangely,” Corvus murmured. “Did you give me posthypnotic suggestions to help me find the character? I don’t know that I signed on for that.”
“No,” said Opal. “Honestly, Corr. I didn’t even know I was hypnotizing you. I didn’t tell you to do anything.”
“I’ll vouch,” said Lauren, lazily. “I was watching the whole time she did you. She didn’t tell you anything.”
“I’m not exactly myself, here,” he said.
“Who are you?” asked Opal.
One of the great hands clamped over her wrist. “I think you know,” said a low voice from under Corvus’s hood. His mouth, the only visible part of his original face, smiled slowly. “You are my handmaiden, are you not? The facilitator who brought me this more-than-perfect vessel? You will be rewarded.” The voice had dropped to a whisper.
Opal twisted her arm, tried to free it from the vise of his fingers. He gripped her more tightly.
“Hey, big guy. Save your energy for the shooting,” Lauren said.
“Corvus,” Opal whispered.
He released her, then ran his clawed fingertips gently down her arm, ended with them resting on her knuckles. “I don’t wish to frighten you,” he said. “Yet.”
“Could you be any more creepy?” Lauren asked. “Leave the handmaiden alone, will you?”
“What?” Corvus asked in his normal voice.
“You’re getting eerie, Corvus. Stop it. At least until we’re acting.”
“I’m eerie?” He sounded surprised.
“Opal, come sit by me,” Lauren said. “Could you check my eyelashes?”
Opal left the chair beside Corvus and moved to the one on the far side of Lauren. It was Dirk Baptiste’s chair—he played the mysteriously ambiguous sheriff in the film, and Opal hadn’t met him yet. His only scene with Corvus happened during the climax, which wasn’t scheduled to be filmed for a week.
Opal leaned to look at La
uren’s eyelashes.
Lauren winked.
“Thanks,” Opal whispered.
“I’ve got some questions for you later,” murmured Lauren. “For now, could you take a quick look at my makeup?”
“No, she cannot,” said Rodrigo, beside them suddenly. “That is not her job. It is mine.”
“Sorry,” said Lauren. “You check my eyelashes, then.”
Rod put a Set2Go kit labeled “Caitlyn” in his black duffel and took out one labeled “Serena.” He leaned close and peered at Lauren’s face. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. She did, and he blew across her eyelids. A loose lash lifted, drifted. “As for the rest, let’s wait until they call for last looks. Everything looks pretty good for the moment.”
“Scene nineteen. Ten-minute warning,” called one of the assistant directors over by the forest altar set.
Opal got to her feet and grabbed her own kit, a small wheeled suitcase. Special effects makeup called for a lot more equipment than street makeup. She returned to Corvus, wondering who would meet her there. She fished one of the protein shakes out of her bag. “You hungry?” she asked.
“Not really, but I’ll drink. It might be a while before I get another chance.” He sounded normal again, no more creepy whispering.
Opal popped the top of the can and slid a straw in, held it up where Corvus could easily sip. He steadied her hand with his own, but didn’t close his hand on her again; he drank from the straw. She watched his mouth to see if the makeup survived its encounter with the straw. His mouth looked different, and real. The straw didn’t disrupt it at all.
“Here we go, people,” called the A.D. “Stand by for blocking rehearsal.”
Corvus pushed Opal’s hand away gently. He and Lauren rose and headed for the set. Opal set the half-finished drink on a nearby table, grabbed her kit, and followed, with Rod.
The stand-ins moved off the set. The boom operator adjusted a microphone to give Corvus more headroom.
SCENE 19
EXT. ALTAR STONE. TWILIGHT.
The DARK GOD stands at the head of the altar stone, which is stained with dark splatters. SERENA, clutching a big sack of a purse, stands beside the stone, not too near the Dark God.
DARK GOD
You’ve come here for a reason.
SERENA
That’s right, to find out what happened to my mother in this forest. Something killed her . . . Neither Cait nor I believe she committed suicide. Who are you? Some Halloween nutcase who goes around dressed like that all year? You get a kick out of scaring people?
DARK GOD
We have known each other before. Don’t you remember?
He reaches out, tips her chin up. Eye contact. They transfix each other. Serena breaks contact, shakes her head.
SERENA
(agonized whisper)
No.
DARK GOD
(low, hypnotic)
You were dedicated to me at your birth. I tasted your blood when you were thirteen, and you pledged to serve me then. Don’t you remember?
SCENE 19b
EXT. ALTAR STONE. NIGHT.
Flashback sequence. YOUNG SERENA at the altar stone where a small fire burns in a circle of black stones, with bowl, goblet, gold disk with mystic writing on it, three red roses. SERENA’S arm is held steady by a FIGURE in a hooded green robe, her mother, her arm stretched above the altar, a gleaming bronze knife flickering in firelight above the child’s wrist. Other ROBED FIGURES dance in the background, eerie FLUTE AND DRUM MUSIC, flickering light indicating firelight, torches. CLOSE-UP on child’s eyes, with wildly dilated pupils.
MOTHER
(portentous voice)
Do you give yourself to the God for the greater good of us all?
YOUNG SERENA
I do!
The knife descends, slashes a shallow cut on the child’s wrist, and blood splashes into the fire. Horrid cries of ghoulish delight from all the robed figures; music picks up a notch, and dancing grows more frenzied. Dark figure looms behind them, head nodding to the music. It is the DARK GOD. For a moment his face is visible, smiling, the eyes glowing green with satisfaction.
BACK to present.
SERENA
No, that never happened! It was just an awful dream!
DARK GOD
You cannot deny it. You bear the mark of that day.
He traces the scar on her wrist with his index talon.
DARK GOD
It is written here, and also on your heart. My name. Speak it.
SERENA
(whisper)
Is . . . bry . . . Isbrytaren.
DARK GOD
Yessssss.
He raises her hand to his face, presses his lips to the scar on the inside of her wrist, then to the back of her hand.
DARK GOD
Now you remember. You know. You can deny your destiny no longer. You are mine.
SERENA
No! No!
DARK GOD frames her face with his hands as her mouth goes wide to scream. He stares into her eyes and she stills like a hypnotized rabbit facing a snake.
DARK GOD
Do not imagine serving me will be terrible. I treasure your fear, but I will also give you gifts. Gifts that can help you in your quest. We will work together.
DARK GOD strokes SERENA’S cheek gently. Her face shifts through a range of responses from horror to acceptance, then finally to anticipation. He tilts her chin again and leans down to kiss her. His hood falls forward so that the kiss is implied rather than overexplicit.
“All right, everybody, stand by for rehearsal.” “Rehearsal’s up!” “Here we go . . . and . . . rehearsing!” “Rehearsing!” “And . . . action.”
Opal had retreated with Rod and the other Hair, Makeup, and Wardrobe people to the tangle of cast and crew chairs behind the walls that simulated night forest. They could hear but not see as Corvus and Lauren ran their lines. Rod got a small portable TV set from his duffel and tuned in to UHF channel sixteen, which, in the vicinity of the soundstage, carried the signal from the hot camera, visual without sound. All of them bent their heads to watch the rehearsal from the view of the master shot camera.
“Dark God looks so real,” Magenta muttered.
“You’re a genius, Opal,” Rod said.
“Thanks,” murmured Opal. She felt both proud and disquieted; she knew she was good at her job, no matter how she did it, but this time she couldn’t take total credit. Something had worked through and with her to turn Corvus into who he was now.
“But the lines,” Betty muttered. “This is so cheesy. I hope they can pull it off.”
The rehearsal ended.
“All right, kids,” said the director, “Last looks.”
Opal got Corvus’s Set2Go bag out of her suitcase. It held sponges, gilding powder, adhesive, and other things she could use to tweak Corvus’s prostheses and bring them back to their original look. She and the other Hair, Makeup, and Wardrobe people took their kits and continuity Polaroids and went on the set to make any necessary last-minute touch-ups.
Opal made the transition from the shadows around the edges to the set, where everything was subject to observation. The lights were bright and hot. Two different worlds existed side by side, the visible world that created the film’s fictional reality, and the invisible world where the illusionists lurked. Opal didn’t like being on the set; she kept most of herself submerged while she was working, and even though she knew she was skilled enough to maintain her mask of normal, being onstage made her nervous. Nobody would be interested in her; she was part of the scenery that moved, and yet, a camera might turn her way, capriciously, and show a part of her she hadn’t hidden well enough. She glanced at the cameras. None had a red light lit. Not a guaranteee.
Coming on set to make sure everything was right was an important part of her job, so she did it. Corvus dropped his hood and leaned forward so Opal could inspect the prostheses on his head. She couldn’t find anything she needed to fix. He held out
his hands, turned them up and down. Again, they looked perfect. “Any problems?” she asked.
“No.” He stood to his full height and pulled the hood up.
“Ready? All nonactors, clear the set,” said Aldridge.
Hair, Makeup, and Wardrobe retreated. Opening bell rang; sound and camera rolled, slate bumped, action called. Rod got out his TV again. Everybody watched the first three takes of the master shot, but then interest dwindled. People settled back in the canvas-backed chairs, pulled out books or magazines. Rod worked on a crossword puzzle. Craig Orlando, key hair, had a book of sudoku puzzles.
Opal opened her letter case, got out a pen and a piece of stationery with red maple leaves across the top.
“Dear Mom,” Opal wrote. Maybe she was nuts to write an actual physical letter. Magenta thought so. E-mail was easier and faster. Opal’s mother liked something she could hold in her hand, and ever since Opal’s younger sister’s accident with one of the household computers, Mom had been suspicious of them. Maybe even before the computer went wild and caused plants to overgrow the guesthouse. Mom had never been fond of technology, though, as a TV news personality, she tangled with it every day. When she got really mad, studio equipment around her broke down.
“Lapis is tiny and dusty. The sets look good, though, and so does my Monster. You met Corvus Weather at the premiere of Dead Loss last fall, remember? This costume is much better. He doesn’t have to kill anybody in this movie, either, just corrupt them, so less mess to mop up.”
Maybe she better not mention the human sacrifices. Her mother hated film representations of witchy religions, especially the bloody ones that made witches look bad. Her dad laughed about all the things the movies got wrong, but sometimes Mom had no sense of humor.
Fall of Light Page 4
