Shades of Pink

by 33 authors

  The dance spiralled down, the swan lifting the ballerina, drawing her up, out of the light, suspended for a moment in a nimbus of purest white light, on the verge of a kiss, and then gone, into the darkness.

  The audience erupted in the loudest applause Karen had ever heard. Even her tough little nephew, terrified of kisses, girl cooties and anything in the least bit pink or delicate, seemed mesmerised, calling for more as loudly as any about them. She knew how good the show was, still puzzled over how such a gem could be so overlooked, unknown and on a shoestring, but she finally found herself relaxing, letting act after act flow over her, hypnotise her with showgirls who high-kicked their way through a door, set alone, centre stage, only to vanish instead of emerge the other side, with tumblers who appeared to fly over, around and through rings of blue, purple and silver fire with no sign of support or wires, and the unearthly ponies which hovered, surrounded the audience, surely on invisible podiums, high in the eaves and sang so beautifully Karen found herself on the verge of tears.

  She’d forgotten about clowns. Her terror had abated, consigned to the locked room with the memory. The memory of being five, ringside as now, with a fat, flat-footed, rictus-grinned clown hurtling toward her with what she thought was a bucket of water. Her fear of water had been immense, and that scene had fuelled her nightmares for years to come. By the time the clown had realised she was genuinely scared it was too late. The ‘water’—in truth a shower of glitter and paper—had hit her, causing her to scream, hyperventilate and cry so hard she had hiccup sobs and could barely breathe.

  Now, the lights dimmed, red, yellow and blue luminous butterflies began to dance, larger than anything in reality, some a foot across and more, and the first notes began to play. She felt her head become light, her breathing begin to labour, her pulse to race as the notes joined, started to jingle into a melody known to every child in the universe, the tune that announced the clowns were coming. Karen glanced down at Carey, but he was grinning, clapping the mystical butterflies and their intricate dance. She thought his lips would crack if his smiles got any wider, the first stumble of clowns appearing from the gloom.

  They were tiny, dwarves she supposed. Her fingers were clenched around the seat arms, her heart trying to race her thoughts and memories, as half a dozen of the figures cavorted about the ring. They were disorganised, childlike, falling, rolling, rising, pushing, shoving, running, skipping, but with no cohesion; a shock after the tightly controlled displays they had witnessed so far. Each figure wore a motley collection of ragged clothes in a rainbow of colours, and Karen knew these were the figures she had seen when Carey was on the Waltzers.

  This realisation helped, a little, when a strike of lightning hit the precise centre of the ring. The small clowns fell in an untidy heap, each sliding around to sit staring at the figure that appeared as the smoke dissipated. Karen thought, knowing she’d already seen this person, that it would be easier, but sweat still broke across her brow, her hands were clammy and her pulse was managing strange lurches and pounding in her ears.

  He was tall, well over six feet, and gracefully slender. He wore what she thought of as a Pierrot suit, plain white with a deep ruff at his neck, a small white cap sat atop his tumble of golden curls and a single black tear lay upon his right cheek. He stood for a moment, contemplating his hands and then became a whirl of leaping, pirouetting energy. His movements had all the grace, power and presence of a principle danseur. Karen found she was spellbound and rigid with fear at the same time.

  He gathered the tiny clowns in his wake, danced them behind him around the ring, exhorting them in a language she did not recognise, until they were dancing in unison, all trace of clumsiness and foolery gone, a disciplined troupe moving to his orders. He kept them going, seemed almost to have them entranced for when one flagged at the frenetic pace, a wave of his hand or a low command would set them moving again. The lighting changed too, balls of white and blue racing around the ring, eventually settling above the head of each dancer, giving them personal spotlights.

  Karen noted the audience was completely still, spellbound as the tiny dancers who described tighter and smaller circles, denoting the end of the performance. Once more centre stage, their leader swept his arm over their heads and they fell to the floor in attitudes of sleep, some curled up, some together, a couple in the poses of exhausted children, legs and arms akimbo. He took a moment to survey their slumbering forms and then cast his eyes over the audience, a wicked smile flickering in his eyes, across his lips. He paused, cocked his head to one side and then began to cross the ring.

  “Not me, please, not me.”

  Karen realised she was muttering aloud at the same moment she knew this strange and beguiling clown had singled her out. She clamped her lips shut and tried, unsuccessfully, to curl them into a smile for the sake of Carey, who was delighted at the attention his aunt was about to receive. Karen’s alertness was focussed on the unwanted visitor who was reaching them. He bowed low, arms swept front and back and remained bent as one hand extended toward her.

  For Carey’s sake, Karen had been trying to maintain a façade of happiness, but she shied back when the hand was offered, every thought that of escape, but even she could not help but forget her terror as a single, perfect, dusky pink rose shimmered into existence on his palm. It was an impossibility, a trick, she knew, but its perfume flooded her senses, filled her with calm and wonder, and she reached for the gift before her mind could scream a warning.

  Nothing happened. The thornless stem yielded to her grasp without bloodshed, the silk of the petals filling her once more with gentle peace. As she watched, aware the entire tent was focussed on her and this strange, ethereal jester, a second rose appeared, as white as his suit. He handed it to her, “A perfectly matched pair”, his voice pitched low and sensual, for her alone. His fingers trailed over hers for a second too long and the effect was as stunning as the lightning which had announced his arrival. He whirled abruptly and headed back to his sleeping troupe, but he left Karen with every nerve on fire, including a few which made her acutely aware of devastating blue eyes gazing into hers from beneath golden lashes and the way his rear looked in those tight-fitting trousers.

  A pale rose mist formed within the ring, grew dense, and was followed by a sudden blast of warm air, a wind which cleared the tent, and took the troupe and its charismatic leader with it. From the rafters came a lilting voice, a fairy fluttering down to bid the audience adieu, apparently under the power of her wings alone, showering them with silver dust and wishing they would come again. All Karen could think about was the longing in her body, clutching the roses close to her chest. In a trance, she delivered a hyper Carey back to her sister, wandered home and fell into an exhausted sleep filled with dreams of pink and white petals.

  For three days she held out. Carey had been back to the circus every night, even Emma, Karen’s sister, had returned home raving about the show, but Karen found she was strangely reluctant to repeat the events of the previous night. Every part of her, from mind to senses yelled that she had to seek him out, discover if there was anything more than an act behind that touch, but a little voice kept whispering about the clown part. On Friday, facing a pile of paperwork, alone in her cubicle whilst co-workers wended their way toward the weekend, she actually found herself arguing aloud.

  “He’s not really a clown, not like the ones I saw when I was a kid. He’s more like… a magician, tricks, smoke and mirrors, all done up with a nod to proper clowns, like the harlequinade.”

  After, she never really knew if that was the moment of decision, but two hours later her feet were taking her toward the circus.

  She was careful to ask for a seat high up, top tier, away from the ring. She felt more in control, able to watch the show with an analytical eye; perhaps she’d even work out some of the tricks. Above all she wanted to watch the rose clown. She’d pinned the pink and white roses—which showed no sign of decay—to her sleeve, a constant reminder, but did he
do it for every show, for a different woman each night? Disappointment was to follow.

  The clown act came out at the beginning. This was a traditional performance, beautiful, skilful, but ultimately not what she had hoped. Of her rose jester there was no sign, just the little clowns tumbling and acting out for the audience who laughed long and loud. A cloud of sadness seemed to drift over her as she fingered the roses at her wrist, and she sat, lost in memory, unconscious of the show continuing below her.

  A breath against her neck brought her back with a start.

  “I am glad you returned.”

  The same startling blue eyes, framed by long golden lashes, stared into hers, sensuous lips curved in the faintest of smiles as his hand sought to entwine, pinioning her fingers with more bolts of lightning. She fought to keep a clear head, unnerved by his power over her, but could not find the will to draw away.

  “I.. I wanted to know…”

  “If it was real” he finished for her, “Perhaps you will allow me to show you the truth?”

  The lilt said question, an invitation possible to decline, but there was never any doubt. Karen nodded and allowed him to guide her from the tent, her thoughts focussed on the touch of his hand and the way his voice caressed her ears.

  “Where are we going?”

  She finally realised they had wended their way between many tents and she was lost in the maze. There was so much more to the enclosure than she had realised, tents, wagons and storage containers veering off in every direction.

  “The Centre.”

  “Like a gathering, where you all get together?”

  “Not at all. Be patient, Karen. We are almost there.”

  How did he know her name, but that wasn’t what passed her lips.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Of course. Without a name we are no-one. I am Raidon.”

  She let the name roll around her mouth for a while, sure she’d heard it somewhere before. With enlightenment tantalisingly close, Raidon came to a stop before a small, silver tent, distracting her. He held the flap open and they ducked inside together, Karen’s breath catching in her throat.

  The ceiling was layered in fluffy white clouds from which tiny lightning bolts flickered giving the air a charge she could taste. Below her feet grew lush grass, dotted with tiny yellow and blue flowers shaped like stars. They rippled, rolling across the interior in waves of constant motion. Central to it all was a tree; an immense willow with drooping branches brushing the ground in the same dance as the flowers. Its leaves were so green that they did not seem real, Karen thinking they were perhaps plastic.

  “No, Karen, they are real. Come, see for yourself.”

  The fact that he was aware of her thoughts was a little too much for her overheated brain and body. Karen let it slide, surrendering to his firm arm about her waist, allowing him to lead her to the tree.

  It was as real as he said, but every leaf dripped single droplets of water, the whole coming together to make a gentle symphony, a cascade of notes, lulling and soothing the senses. Raidon held aside a handful of branches and cocked his head as he had in the ring, considering.

  “Will you join me within?”

  “Within?”

  Despite her question, Karen was already stepping forward, Raidon nodding, smiling, enfolding her against him once more.

  Under the canopy of weeping branches spread a carpet of mingled pink and white rose petals. Karen hesitated, reluctant to crush such simple beauty, but Raidon smiled, whispered ‘Watch’, and stepped forward, taking her with him. The petals beneath their feet, infinitely delicate, crushed by a breath, simply curled, then unfurled, untouched.

  “How?”

  “Magic, of course.”

  Raidon folded down, sitting with his back to the furrowed, mossy trunk and patted the petals beside him, causing them to waft up in a cloud. Karen giggled and sat, surprised when he did not immediately hold her to him. Instead he set a finger under her chin, tilted her face up and studied her. Beneath that unflinching scrutiny Karen wanted to turn away, could not, felt compelled to return his regard, staring deep into the icy depths of his unblinking eyes.

  Abruptly, he wrapped his arms about her and drew her to his chest, some decision made. Without preamble his lips touched hers and Karen later felt she had lost her mind as the kiss deepened. Shocks ran along every nerve, electrified each sensation to the verge of madness, the silk of his lips and pressure of his tongue becoming constant explosions within her body. He drew away slightly, allowed her to draw breath, her eyes flickering open and seeing the lightning clouds gathered about the tree, their bolts blinding, continuous. Raidon chuckled, low and fuelled with predatory desire.

  “Raidon, god of thunder, remember?”

  She was in no fit state to remember anything, losing herself in him once more. She couldn’t recall how she became naked, didn’t care; knew only that his skin was also bared to her touch. Smooth, creamy gold, hairless, every part of him, inch by inch, explored with ravenous fingertips, her need swelling with each exquisite revelation. His fingers caught in her hair, twisted it around until he controlled her, puppeteer and marionette, guiding her lips to his chest, loosing inarticulate sounds at her teasing kisses and questing tongue.

  They were lying now, cushioned in petals, his hands disentangling, pressing on her shoulders, pushing her down the length of him, arching to her every connection, their bodies intermittently lit by brilliant silver flashes from the increasingly frantic clouds. Buried in him, the clean, electric scent of him deep in her veins, caressing, licking, sucking, coaxing, swallowing, she knew nothing but him, wanted nothing but him.

  Sated, he turned his attention to her, curling about her, sinuous, graceful, tantalising, touching, withdrawing, making her claw for him, beg, plead, her blood pounding in her ears until all she felt was need, hunger, unleashed passions buried throughout her life. His kisses were miniature shocks, but when his lips touched the curve of her inner thigh, swept up to her wet, pulsing flesh, she was flooded with voltage, every hair on end, each nerve stretched to breaking point and her orgasm powerful enough to cost her consciousness.

  His kisses, random, playful, unexpected, brought her back to him. Suspended above her on arms rippling with strength, he stared, waiting patiently. She barely managed to nod, to give him the permission he seemed to seek, then all was motion. Rocking, bucking, clawing, thrusting, his presence inside her intensifying the shocks a thousand-fold. She knew she screamed, but could hear nothing, knew only stupefying pleasure as he thrust a final time, loosed a long, growling breath and collapsing over her.

  Opening her eyes, with no idea of how long they had slept, wrapped about each other, petals clinging to their sweat-sheened skins, Karen caught her breath for what seemed like the millionth time that night. They were surrounded in a silver-white glow. Raidon’s cap had unpinned itself in their frenetic tumbling and the light spilled forth from the very crown of his skull.

  “What are you?” she murmured and her voice roused him. He grinned, shrugged and snuggled closer.

  “I told you; Raidon, god of lightning.”

  She knew a moment of rejection, of desolation. After all they’d shared, still he would make fun, tease and lie? He sensed her misgivings, turning her face to his.

  “I tell no lies, Karen. Think well. How did I know your name, how is the show performed, how does my inner light spill from my head? Are you dreaming?”

  He gave her a playful pinch and she giggled despite herself.

  “No, you do not dream. Few are given the chance to play with the gods, Karen. Less are allowed this.” He kissed her, softly and she melted against him, her will turned to water, “I chose to give you this, gave you many chances to turn away, to say no, but you accepted on every occasion. You wanted me as I wanted you.”

  “What now?”

  He stilled his exploration of her body, his hands falling away, his eyes becoming shadowed, secretive.

  “You will leave, return
to your life. You will forget.”

  “No!”

  The passion in her denial shocked her, but Raidon only shook his head in sorrow.

  “You cannot stay, Karen. I am not like you. You will grow old, die, and I will lose you. Neither of us would want to lose this beauty, this perfect moment; lose it to age and sadness.”

  “I will not leave you. There is always a way.”

  He merely shook his head. A species of madness took Karen. She looked frantically about, remembered the clouds, the lightning, the weeping trees.

  “Then I will die here and you will always remember that you killed me with your beauty, that you made me love what I could never have. So much for your godhood for you brought only death!”

  Even as his eyes flashed open, his hands reached for her, she stepped backward, stood under the sprawling, waving canopy, felt the droplets bounce from her skin and smelt the lightning crackling down in a million tiny bolts.

  Then he was there, arms about her, urgent, hungry kisses covering her face, his hold all but crushing her. The air contained a faint trace of singeing and she could feel her hair standing out in an electrified corona about her head.

  “Am I dead?” she whispered and his laughter careened off the walls, off the clouds and bark.

  “Watch the magic.”

  He held her so tightly it was painful, but if he hadn’t she would have bolted, or fainted, perhaps died from shock. The tears on the willow leaves grew, expanding into fat raindrops, growing and falling faster and faster until the pair stood together under a torrential storm, lightning searing through in perpetual repetition. Horrified, but strangely removed from it, she watched the rain slough the skin from her bones, felt jolt after jolt pass through her skeleton, expanding and contracting her bones until even Raidon’s comfort could barely contain her pain and incipient insanity.