Wordlessly, they walked, protected by that radiant glow, until they reached a clearing. He saw strong, naked figures like his own and that of his companion. He wished that he could remember his name. He was certain that it started with ‘Ah’. As they approached the others, he felt himself fading. A new darkness encroached. It was kind, patient as it took him, unlike that terrible presence in the jungle. He felt firm, but gentle, arms grab him…
Ambrose stirred. He was lying in the middle of the trail and Cat Stevens’ Moonshadow was playing into his ears. He must have fainted. Strange. Less unusual was that he had forgotten whatever he had dreamt. He just knew that he had been hearty, then dreadfully afraid, and finally, a feeling of safety and relief had washed over him. Then there were those sapphire eyes. As usual, they were all that he remembered. They were taunting him, sitting at the very edges of his memory. They challenged him to remember their owner, to remember his life before the accident. The frustration was maddening.
His iPhone vibrated in his pocket. Finn had flooded his phone with texts and missed calls. He looked at the time and swore. It was 7:00. He glanced around him, and for the first time, realised it was already dark. For a few moments, he felt a strange terror, one that had emerged from his very core. He could not explain it. Then, he looked up at the stars and it was gone, as if banished by their cold light. He called Finn. As he waited, part of him wished that Finn would not pick up.
“Hey man! Where the hell are you? Are you alright?” came the familiar, gruff voice, dashing his hopes.
“I’m all good, I just ran into something on the way home. I-” he began, but was interrupted by an exasperated Finn.
“Whatever man, you’re two hours late, hurry the hell up.”
“Alright, sorry. See you soon,” Ambrose mumbled as Finn hung up. He was actually less angry than Ambrose thought he would be. Ambrose picked himself up and dashed through the trail. Reaching his house, he shouted a greeting to his parents and dashed up the mahogany stairs, past Mercy’s bewildered face.
“Ambrose! Won’t you even stop to hug your mother? What has gotten into you?” she called after him.
“Sorry! I’m in a rush. I’m late to a party.” He kicked off his brown leather shoes.
“Will you be back early?”
“I think so, sounds pretty boring.” He threw his blue dress shirt and jeans on his bed.
“Where is it?”
“The Rossboroughs’ House, it’s some sort of masquerade ball.” He tore his tuxedo out of his closet.
“Sounds fancy, do you need to take a gift?" she asked, in a tone that clearly indicated that she expected him to.
“Nah, I’m good.” He began to dress up, carefully doing up his buttons, tucking his fancy, white cotton dress shirt into his black suit pants and fixing his collar.
“Are you sure? You know it’s polite...” she pressed.
“It’s alright mother!” He gave his black dress shoes a quick polish and grabbed the suit jacket by the collar. He gave himself one last look in the mirror before rushing downstairs to where his mother was waiting. No sooner had he hugged her and called out a goodbye to his father than he burst out of the heavy oak door and started pelting towards Finn’s house. He was now two hours and thirty minutes late! He wasn’t going to hear the end of it for a while.
He reached his friend’s home. Finn was already waiting in his sedan, a white 2012 Chevy Impala. Even from a distance, the affection Finn had for his car was obvious. There was not a single stain or scratch on its carefully polished exterior. Ambrose ran up to it. As he reached to open the door, Finn started the engine and inched the car forward. Ambrose sighed. Was Finn really playing that game? Again, he walked to the car and reached for the door. Again, the car moved a few inches forward. The window opened.
“Bro hurry up! We’re late!” Finn laughed. Ambrose rolled his eyes. Once more, he tried to get inside the car. Clearly, Finn didn’t mind being late anymore. The car shifted another short distance.
“Man, I’m serious, what’s wrong with you? Get in!” laughed Finn. Ambrose just waited, standing in place.
“Do you want to get in the damn car? I’ll leave you here,” Finn said in mock annoyance. Ambrose did not budge.
“Oh, fine. I swear, I’ll stop now. Get in!” he insisted. Ambrose walked over to the waiting vehicle. He reached for the door. As his fingers brushed the handle, the car moved back to where it had started. Ambrose began to get annoyed, but remembered that he had been over two hours late. Maybe Finn deserved some fun at his expense. However, Ambrose could play that game too. He made as if to walk away.
“Where are you going?” he heard Finn call to him. He kept walking and didn’t look back. “Fine I’m seriously done now. Just get in the car and let’s go!” Finn pulled up alongside him. Ambrose refused to acknowledge him.
“Can’t you take a damn joke? I waited ages for you!” Finn was starting to get flustered. Ambrose couldn’t hold back a chuckle.
“Oh I see; you think that’s funny. Just get in, will you? It’s going to be a pretty long ride.” Finally, Ambrose successfully made his way into the car. It smelled like fresh sandalwood and the brown leather seats were spotlessly clean. Even the floor mats had been recently washed. Ambrose smiled. His friend really went the extra mile when it came to his Chevy. Out of the speakers, he heard Elvis crooning “Can’t Help Falling in Love”.
Until I wait for the morning dew
Goodnight my friend, an author great
PS: I drank loads of beer off the crate
-Trinkle, India
4
By the time they approached the gates of the Rossborough home, it was 8:00 and the sun was long gone. Now, only the stars and a bright half-moon lit the sky. The property was truly massive. Bigger even than Ambrose had expected. The yard outside the house spanned an entire football field, not to mention the main structure. The entire road adjacent to the entrance was already full of cars. They had been forced to park several blocks away. As they walked closer to that great estate, Ambrose could not help but to be astounded. He had thought his family was wealthy, but the Rossboroughs were on a whole other level of excess, no, splendour. He looked enviously at the colossal manor, a monument that would remain just as beautiful long after the last Rossboroughs disappeared from its halls. Corinthian columns of white marble decorated its exterior, a perfectly sculpted cage around the building. Two staircases on each side led to small side rooms adjoining the centre of the front porch. The side rooms were covered by low, flat roofs on top of which stood two terraces fenced by small, golden rails. Over the centre of the porch, there was a high triangular roof made of red clay, under which hung a great chandelier. It was lit that night, illuminating the area below it with brilliant, yellow light. Beautiful classical designs were etched into the marble. The rest of the mansion consisted of flat roofs over square structures. Large windows with ornately sculpted ledges were the only disruption in the otherwise spotless white walls. The interior of the house was concealed by closed purple curtains. Small bushes and flowers were placed on the terraces and around the porch. Lying in front of the house was a narrow pool of pristine water. Two small fountains at the extremes and one massive fountain at the centre, made completely of black marble, shot powerful jets of clear water into the sky. Great coloured beams of light, emanating from the ground, finished the beautiful ensemble, illuminating the house in a magnificent fashion.
As they got closer, Ambrose saw that the ball had already commenced. Black and white suits swirled amongst the myriad colours of the latest in feminine fashion. Of course, everyone was wearing a mask. He saw a sea of joyful jesters, sad ladies, vicious beasts, confused louts and pagan gods. Delicious scents reached him, coming from a seemingly bottomless buffet of the finest foods. The smell of grilled lamb, marinated with oregano, garlic and thyme greeted his nose. He felt his mouth begin to water at the thought of indulging in such delicious fare. Waltzes from bygone times accompanied the revellers on that vast expans
e of carefully trimmed grass. It almost reminded him of something. Something long ago. The edges of his vision began to obscure.
Shining palaces on the Danube. Jewelled ladies in silk dresses, fine princes in tailcoats, all spinning madly to an ethereal tune.
He felt Finn grab his arm and drag him towards the iron gates of the manor. The scene was gone, retreating swiftly into an obscure space in his mind, far out of his reach. It had left him with a measure of joy, a certainty. He wanted to join the masked figures in their elegant dance. At the entrance, hulking guardsmen waited to usher them in. They were thoroughly patted down before they were allowed to pass. As they crossed the threshold, Finn donned a silver mask, decorated by winged horses on the sides. He put it on, covering the upper half of his face and waded into the mass. Ambrose followed him, realising only then that he had forgotten to buy a mask. Around him, every face was concealed behind a small piece of art. He alone was naked, exposed in that whirlpool of swirling, shimmering bodies. He had lost Finn in the crowd. In that great sea of merry souls, he was utterly isolated. He wanted to join those graceful creatures in their wild abandon, but did not know how.
As his confidence seeped away, Ambrose felt a delicate hand rest on his shoulder. He looked down to see white fingers decorated by pearly nails. He turned and saw another mask facing him. It was of an icy blue hue with a crimson rose attached to its right side by a medley of golden leaves and silver berries. From within, a pair of familiar sapphire eyes studied his bare countenance with a burning intensity. He gazed at her in bewilderment, noticing a solitary pearl hanging from a silver chain around her slender neck and the long, azure dress that she wore with such style. Her lips parted into a brilliant smile.
“I love your mask Monsieur D’Artois. It certainly is one of the finest pieces I’ve seen all evening,” the melodious voice whispered into his ear.
“Madame, I am absolutely flattered. You seem to know my name but I’m ashamed to say that yours eludes me,” he replied, trying to match the enchanting rhythm of her speech.
“You’re the boy from New York who lost his memory. Everyone knows your name, but you remain a bit of a mystery,” she said. “I hope you’ll forgive me saying it, but you certainly look nothing like your parents.” Ambrose felt like he should be offended by such brashness, but he was strangely attracted to it. She wasn’t wrong after all. Where his skin was a light, olive colour. Richard and Mary d’Artois were pale, like the girl in front of him. He saw some of himself in their features, but not enough to convince him. During the weeks after the accident, he had often wondered if he was adopted.
“Hmm, but you haven’t given me your name. It can’t be that bad. I promise I won’t laugh!” he teased her. His hand moved gingerly towards her mask. Grinning, she brushed it away.
“Aisling,” she giggled. “Let’s dance.”
He gently took that fragile hand into his own and, keeping his elbow straight, placed the other on her firm back, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress. Then, a horrible realization hit him. With a sinking feeling, he confessed, “I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“Hold on to me,” she smiled tenderly.
“Alright.”
“Move your left foot forward,” she directed him. “Now, spin to the left and bring your feet together.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah, you’re doing great. Now right foot back and spin to the right.”
Ambrose’s initially awkward movements quickly smoothed into a graceful waltz as they spun to Juventino’s ‘Over the Waves’. Getting into the rhythm of the dance, he had the oddest feeling that he was remembering it, rather than learning it.
To him, it seemed as if they were alone amongst the flashing colours and exquisite figures around them, but that was alright. In fact, it was perfect. They were together and that was all that mattered. Her eyes were lost in his and Ambrose could tell that she was trying to read them, but how could she, when even their owner couldn’t? He saw a desperate hope in her eyes, a need to know meaning in his arms. Yet there was also a certain hesitation. He saw a vulnerability there, one that something within him recognised all too well. At that moment, he wanted to hold her forever. He wanted her to know that as long as she wanted him, Ambrose d’Artois would never let her go.
He pulled her closer to him. He saw the starlight dancing in her eyes, begging him to keep going. He was only too happy to oblige. Slowly he bowed his head and closed his eyes. As they locked lips, a sweet ecstasy passed through him. Now, all that separated them was a fragile layer of silk. All around them, the cheerful voices faded. The masked figures around them disappeared, and that beautiful music became interlaced with that of their beating hearts. As their souls entwined, visions flooded Ambrose. He remembered hundreds of such moments. He could not know where the memories came from, or if they were real. The settings changed too fast for him to fully comprehend them. People that he did not know, with faces that he could not decipher, flashed through his memory. All that was certain were those sapphire eyes. A soft whisper that started deep inside his chest made its way into his mind, becoming an unbearably loud roar in his head.
“Belit!” It was a name. A name from an age long before the universe ever conceived that elegant night. When Ambrose repeated it in his mind, he felt a strange shudder pass through him. A fierce and terrible adoration took hold of him. Long repressed tears were at last unleashed, rolling swiftly down his cheeks.
Their lips parted. His eyes opened. He still held Aisling close, but he felt like he was miles away. Their dance had become just that, a dance. The fascinating moment that had been had passed as quickly as it had come. He no longer gazed into her sapphire eyes. Now he looked past her, into the crowd. He looked at the flashing crimsons, the streaks of white, the golden hues gliding around them. He looked at the ornate masks, some beautiful, some monstrous. He stared into the eyes lying behind them. They varied in shape and colour as much as their owners, but Ambrose only saw empty orbs. A dreadful anguish gripped him. His eyes shifted feverishly from mask to mask, not daring to look back at Aisling, fearing that he would see the same, empty orbs. As his vision began to obscure, he saw a spectre walking towards him.
A mask the colour of blood. Strange tribal markings painted in black. A trio of black feathers sprouting from an ornate crest. Ivory skin. Sapphire eyes.
“Belit!”
The name rang in the innermost chambers of his soul. It rang so loud that for a second, he knew. For an instant, an eternity flashed before him. Then, it was gone. Everything was gone. Aisling, the ball, the stars, only darkness remained. There would be no dreams that night.
***
Ambrose awakened on an unfamiliar bed. His suit was gone, replaced by a white linen robe. The warm, yellow sheets wrapped around him were made of some soft fabric, alien to him. The mattress was made of a foam that fitted itself comfortably to his form. The bedposts were polished oak with angels riding winged horses carved into the tips. Obsidian marble walls surrounded him, occasionally accentuated by strange, golden carvings. Rays of sunlight streamed into the room through a large window to the right of the bed. To the left, a fire roared and spat on a hearth made of stone, its heat radiating towards Ambrose, soothing him. The sweet smell of cinnamon drifted towards him in small wisps of smoke from the far corner of the room, making him feel strangely at home.
A large, gilded door opened. A lithe figure walked through it. Every step was graceful. Every movement elegant. She wore an imperial purple dress. Long, ash blonde locks flowed from her head. Not a single imperfection marked that ivory skin.
“Hello,” she said in a voice full of calm and serenity. A steady voice restrained by an iron will. A voice that concealed the violent maelstrom in her soul.
“Aisling?” he asked in bewilderment, seeing a pair of familiar sapphire eyes.
“Pardon me? My name is Courtney. Courtney Rossborough,” she said, doing her best to sound confused.
“Oh, sorry. I just met someone who ha
d the exact same eyes last night.”
“Have you never seen blue eyes before?”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. I was being an idiot. My name is Ambrose d’Artois. I live a few hours away. I don’t know how I ended up here. I was dancing and I just passed out. I am so sor-” he began to ramble, but she cut him off, raising a delicate, ivory hand.
“Do you remember nothing?” she snapped. Despite her harsh tone, he thought he saw a certain longing in those eyes.
“There was a girl, Aisling. She was with me and we were out on your yard, at the party. Do you know where my friend is? Finn Hawthorne? He was my ride here.” He thought he saw a flash of disappointment cross her face at his answer.
“I see. I have not seen your friend. As for your partner, I fear you frightened her when you fell. I don’t think you’ll see her again.” There was such certainty in her voice that he did not think to question her words.
“So, you own this place?” he asked. Now, he saw a hint of impatience in her face as she answered, though it never reached her voice.
“Technically my father does,” came her curt reply.
An Immortal Dance Page 3
