2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  • • •

  “Circle up, lovelies,” Mab says, striding into the huddle of performers. Inside the main tent, the muted rumble of another full house is masked by the creepy tones of live organ music. It’s just before the 8 p.m. show and somehow the sky is already turning dark. Mab is wearing her ringleader outfit—a hideously sparkling getup made of a bedazzled tailcoat and top hat, nude leggings, and high-heeled black boots. Her whip is coiled at her side, and her long black hair falls down her back like the River Styx. Despite having disposed of a body earlier that day, she seems remarkably nonchalant.

  Everyone does.

  “As you know,” she says, once we’re all in a huddle, “this morning we lost a dear member of our troupe. Sabina will always live on in our hearts, and she will be greatly missed. Tonight, let our show be in honor of her work. A moment of silence, please.”

  Everyone bows their heads.

  I’m standing just outside of the huddle. I’m not one of the performers, so I don’t get the sparkly leotards and elaborate headpieces. I just get a black T-shirt that reads Cirque des Immortels on the front and Crew on the back. But at least they let me stay back here for opening, unlike most of the concessionaires, who are just hired locals.

  After a few moments, Mab takes a deep breath that even I can hear, and everyone looks up again.

  “For Sabina,” she says.

  The members of the troupe put their hands in the center and shout.

  After that, the twenty-something performers run to their places. Everyone goes out for the opening act, the charivari. They don’t need me to sell cotton candy until intermission, so I sneak to one of the side entrances to catch a glance t. I lean against the cool metal supports of the bleachers and stare out into the center ring, trying to ignore the kid banging his feet against the seat to my right. In the aisle around me, keeping out of sight, are a handful of the performers, their faces set in concentration. Kingston and Melody are on the other side. I can barely make them out in this light, but Melody’s giant wig is a dead giveaway.

  The music changes. Organ music shifts to heavy downbeats, bass floods the tent, and then the five-piece band kicks in with swinging violins and saxophones. On cue, the troupe floods into the ring in a swarm of beautiful chaos. Twin aerialists drop from the air, wrapped in sheets of burgundy fabric, as the acrobats burst from the back curtain, tumbling and leaping over each other in an intricate dance. Jugglers flip over the ring curb and toss their flaming knives across the full space of the ring, creating an arc of fire and steel that illuminates the contortionists twisting themselves on arms and elbows. I look over just in time to see Kingston and Melody whirl onstage like salsa dancers, their feet stepping a quick rhythm perfectly synced to the throb of techno. The moment they spin apart, Kingston raises his wand and shoots a shower of vivid purple sparks. Melody does a perfect aerial through it, landing in a split that makes the crowd roar with applause. More performers crowd into the ring. A pair of women do a one-arm balance on the heads of their burly bases. Men and women in leather and velvet wield flaming staffs and poi, swirling the fire in arcs that sear ghostly traces in my vision. More aerialists drop from the ceiling, this time dangling and stretching from hoops and a spinning trapeze. My hands already hurt from clapping so hard. In these fantastic moments, it’s easy to forget that just this morning, one of our members was murdered right where the handbalancers are standing now.

  Almost as soon as the manic party has begun, the troupe assembles near the back of the ring. With one quick call out, half the performers leap onto the thighs of their bases, creating a human wall of color and smiles. The fliers clap and wave, then spread their hands wide as the music changes once more. Then they freeze.

  The lights in the ring dim, and colors fade to black and blue and silver-white. Fog appears from the thick black curtain in the back, filling the round stage with a pool of writhing mist. The music becomes haunting again as a pipe-organ chord rises above the drums’ downbeats and the cello’s churnings. A strobe goes off, and Mab is there, revealed in a whirl of fog like Venus emerging from the sea. Only this Venus glitters with a thousand tiny Swarovski crystals and sports a top hat. And a whip.

  The crowd, of course, goes wild.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls, her voice as thick and dusty as the smoke that curls at her feet, just as soft and just as overpowering. She strides forward and raises her top hat, sweeping it down in a bow that seems to encompass everyone in the crowd. When she stands, her green eyes are sparkling as bright as her outfit. “Welcome to Cirque des Immortels! Tonight, we have a show to ensnare and entwine, filled with acts to allure you, hellish and divine. Tonight—tonight only—we offer you this, a night of ecstasy, a night of bliss. For once our shows are over and through, for the very select—the most special of you—to our backstage, we cordially invite, to wine, to dine, relax and… delight. Curious? You should be. Just ask, and you’ll know. But for now, sit back, relax, and enjoy our show.”

  With that, she unfurls the whip from her side and raises it high into the air, snapping the tail with a perfectly-timed crack. The lights flash. And then she’s gone. The audience applauds as the music resumes and the troupe runs offstage to make room for the first act—the jugglers.

  Melody whirls past me, and I follow her and the line of performers out into the night. The moment I’m out of the tent, the air seems to drop ten degrees, sending lines of goose bumps over my arms. Melody and the others are already gathered near the backstage tent. It’s a small, pavilion-style thing that looks like it should be holding a barbeque rather than a bunch of props and costumes. I wander back toward her. I’ve seen the juggling act enough to have it memorized. And besides, my cotton candy won’t miss me.

  As I’m walking around the side of the tent, I catch the faintest hint of movement under the bleachers. The bottom of the tent sidewall has been pulled up to allow for more ventilation, and clambering among the wires and discarded popcorn boxes is a girl dressed all in black. The kid is watching the show from between the audience’s feet, completely hidden from the crowd. I’m about to duck under and drag her out—she probably thought she could just get a free show—when she turns her head and I see the familiar green eyes that never fail to give me the chills. Lilith, Mab’s right-hand man. Well, girl. She doesn’t look older than twelve. She’s short, with curly black hair, green eyes, and a roundness to her face that makes her look cherubic and somewhat lost. I’ve never seen her doing anything in the show, either in the ring or behind the scenes. Hell, I practically never see her period. But wherever she is, Mab isn’t too far away. The one time I saw them together, Mab practically petted Lilith’s head like a kitten.

  She glances back at me and smiles a grin of pure childlike delight, then goes back to watching the show. That’s when I notice another small movement as her cat, Poe, slinks around his master’s feet. The tabby curls up around Lilith’s ankles and watches me with calm yellow eyes. I shiver and turn away, quickly making my way toward the backstage tent. When I reach Melody, she’s already halfway into her next costume. Her blushing makeup and enormous Marie Antoinette pink wig make her look like some fetishistic baby doll. The pinstripe suit isn’t helping much, either. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to seeing her in costume—the contrast between pink Lolita and refined hippie is still jarring.

  “Hey, Viv,” she says as I approach. “Gonna watch the new act?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Got nothing else to do.”

  I pause as Kingston walks over. He’s got his cape in one hand, magic wand in the other. He’s in sequined trousers and shiny shoes… and nothing else. My eyes catch on the single drip of sweat slowly edging down his chest toward his aggravatingly-perfect abs. The head of his feathered-serpent tattoo is angled down one pec. The rest of its body curls over his shoulder and behind his back, its tail twisting over one hip and disappearing into his trousers. My face is up here, I can nearly hear him say, and I tear my eyes back toward Melody, prayin
g neither of them caught it. He’s a magician; and magicians aren’t supposed to look like heavily-inked Calvin Klein models. They’re supposed to be, like, old and wrinkled and wear funny clothing. It’s not fair.

  “How’s it going?” he asks, tossing the cape down on a crate beside him before helping Melody get her other arm into her tux. I’m still refusing to stare at him, but my eyes keep lingering on places they shouldn’t. He has those lines at his hips, the come fuck me lines, I seem to remember someone calling them. Yeah, Mel would have my head.

  “I’m all right,” I say, trying to keep my voice detached.

  The two of them move like they came out of the same womb. Melody said she’s only been here for five years, but they move in such sync that I’d have expected longer. Just watching them makes the guilt squirm in my gut. Kingston is with her; I shouldn’t be staring at him like a fangirl. But it’s not like he’s making it any easier. God made shirts for a reason.

  “Speaking of new acts,” I say, trying to keep myself from thinking in third-wheel terms. “What was with Mab’s new introduction?”

  If I hadn’t been looking at them so intently, I would have missed the brief flick of understanding that passes between them. Then Kingston is looking at me, his eyes carefully guarded. He still hasn’t shaved his stubble.

  “Tapis Noir,” he whispers. “The Black Carpet event.”

  I raise an eyebrow. There’s something in the way he says it that makes butterflies hatch in my stomach.

  “The what?”

  He looks around to make sure no one’s listening in. No one is; they’re all practicing and psyching themselves up for their acts. Even so, he leans in a little bit, and Melody tilts her head closer.

  “The Black Carpet event. It only happens once every couple of stops, on the new moon. It’s… for VIPs. A sort of after-party.”

  “Cool,” I say, because that’s really all my brain can come up with. Thinking smart when he’s leaning this close is difficult. “Do we get in?”

  “You don’t want in,” he says quickly. “It’s not for people like… like you.”

  “Concessionaires?”

  “No, Viv. Mortals.”

  The word hangs in the air like a concrete veil, separating me from him and Melody and the rest of the troupe. It’s not something that I thought would ever be used against me. Not until I came here. I’m just a mortal, a normal, while the rest… they’re something else entirely. I’m still not entirely certain what.

  “I see,” I say. Though, of course, I don’t. All I can see is that it’s one more reason Kingston and Mel are more suited for each other. And another reason I’ll always be an outsider with the two of them.

  “Just stay away from it,” Melody says. “Trust me. I’ve only been once and that was more than enough.”

  “What about you?” I ask Kingston. Is it my imagination, or does that actually make him blush?

  “A gentleman never tells,” he says. Then he stands up straight and grabs the cloak from the crate. “Come on, Melody. We’re next.” I hadn’t even noticed the music inside the tent change or the roar of applause. Before I can wonder if I managed to piss him off, he’s dragging Melody across the grass and toward the back curtain. They disappear under the flap, but not before Melody throws me a quick apologetic glance.

  I look around the backstage area at the performers completely lost in the routine of the show. The jugglers are changing into new costumes, the fire eaters are organizing their torches. Everything is so smooth, so refined. So absolutely unaware of my existence. Mab hired me with the promise of greatness, but this? So far, the only people who seem to notice me are Melody and Kingston. And even that’s not saying much. Especially not when he’ll never notice me the way I want him to.

  Suddenly, the memory of Sabina’s corpse flashes across my vision. The broken smile and the blood. It makes my skin grow cold. It reminds me that not being noticed right now may be a good thing.

  Chapter Two: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

  THE NIGHT AIR is cold as the crowd leaves the main tent. They file toward the parking lot on the other side of the road, their chatter loud and excited. Only a few of them linger back by the chapiteau, fingering their tickets with nervous anticipation. A new, smaller tent has been constructed on one side of the dirt promenade, though I never saw it go up. It glows in the darkness like a black lotus. The interior flickers in shades of violet and crimson, and music filters out. It’s a heavy downbeat that has a pulse, an urgency that tugs at my hips, but no one moves toward it. I can’t help but stare like the rest of the loitering guests.

  “Fancy a go?” says a voice at my side.

  I nearly jump.

  “Mel,” I say. She’s changed out of her costume and is now in pink pajama bottoms and a long, tattered knit cardigan, her thumbs poking out from the sleeves. She’s also grinning like a fool.

  “Well?” she asks, nodding to the new tent.

  “Are you?” I ask, my heart suddenly thumping in my chest in time to the music. There’s a ring of men and women in black suits surrounding the tent. They’re all wearing sunglasses. Did Mab hire bodyguards? What sort of after-party requires bodyguards?

  “Hell no,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t invited.”

  She holds up a small purple ticket. Cirque des Immortels is scrawled across the front in heavy black ink.

  “Won’t they notice?” I say, gesturing toward the guard. Rebelling isn’t in my nature—I’m always the one who gets caught. But something about the tent is calling to me. It’s promising me things I can’t imagine, but would surely regret missing. Somehow I know that rebelling is precisely what the Tapis Noir is all about.

  Melody eyes the guards before laughing.

  “The Shifters? Please. So long as you’ve got a ticket, they don’t give a fuck who goes in.”

  I glance back to the bodyguards and try to imagine the Shifters dressing up in suits, which is nearly impossible. The Shifters are the tent crew and part-time freak show. Most of them looked like they were part of a biker gang. I wonder what Mab had to do to get them into Armani suits.

  Mel holds the ticket out. I hesitate. Then, because that small tugging voice inside of me is really digging the edge of danger thing, I take it. On the back, there’s a small block of handwritten script.

  You are cordially invited to the Tapis Noir,

  our premiere, no bounds after-party.

  Indulge and enjoy irresponsibly.

  xx Mab

  Performer is stamped down the left-hand side.

  “Just make sure you get the right mask,” she says as I study the card.

  “What do you mean?”

  She leans in close and whispers in my ear, as though she doesn’t want any of the punters—the more endearing name we used for the public—to hear. “The black mask. If you get a white one, turn around and leave. Immediately.”

  I slip the ticket in my pocket.

  “Why do I have a feeling this is more than just a party?” I whisper as she steps back. Why do I have the feeling I want it to be more than a party? And why do I want Kingston to be there?

  She just grins and shrugs. “Hey, we already warned you, not that that means anything. The rest, well… you’ll just have to find that out for yourself. You won’t forget it, that’s for sure.”

  As if on cue, fire leaps up around us. I wince at the instant heat, then realize it’s one of the fire-breathers standing on a pedestal. More fire-dancers appear in the crowd—women with claws of fire or flaming hula hoops, men with torches and poi and flaming rope darts. None of them are wearing more than a few scraps of leather and rings of steel. If that. One of the fire-clawed women is only adorned in swirls of black body paint. Melody’s grin widens.

  “That’s you,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. She begins to walk away and calls back, “Have fun.”

  I don’t have time to second-guess. The crowd of punters huddles closer together, their faces glowing red in the flame.
The air smells of kerosene and dust and heat and something that makes my stomach churn with excitement and an inexplicable feeling. I huddle in between a man in a tweed suit and a woman in jeans and a shawl. I’m staring with as much awe as the rest of them as the fire dancers whirl and manipulate the flames they twine about their bodies. One of the men blows a huge cloud of flame over the promenade in front of us. When the fire billows out, Mab is standing on the walkway.

  It’s not a Mab I’m comfortable calling my boss.

  She’s wearing what looks like a cross between a corset and some Victoria’s Secret nightgown—a tube of white silk with black lace over the bust and black stripes down the seams. The dress barely reaches her thighs, and from there down she’s in sheer black stockings and diamond-encrusted black stilettos. The worst part is, she pulls it off flawlessly. She has the perfect model physique, the curves to kill, the agelessness and allure. Her fingers are covered in rings that look like talons and skulls, and it’s only after a second look that I realize the heels of her shoes are black spinal columns. In one hand is a black half-mask, also covered in diamonds. She gives us all a smile I’d prefer she reserved for the bedroom.

  “Follow me, my lovelies. The Black Carpet awaits,” she says. Then she turns and heads across the grass. She doesn’t look back to see if we follow. But we do. We follow her like she’s a provocative pied-piper. The fire-dancers continue to twirl around us in a pyrotechnic escort.

  She leads us around the tent to an entry hidden in the back. There are guards on each side of the velvet flap. Beside the entry is a table covered in purple satin and a variety of masks. Mab walks straight through the entry, then sticks out a hand to gesture us in with one ring-encrusted finger. The music pulses in my gut even from here. I feel like I’m waiting outside some L.A. nightclub, not standing in a field in the middle of nowhere. Not that I knew what being outside an L.A. nightclub felt like.