“Has anyone ever died after one of your performances?” he asked after their final performance, on Friday. “The shock seems like it might be too much for the weak of heart.”
“No!” shouted Silenus. “But you just might be the first if you ask another of these goddamn questions! I told you, three weeks, and with no rounding up. You’ve got a handful of days left. Let’s see if you can spend them in quiet, hmm?”
George, humiliated, looked around. The entire troupe was watching him. He flushed magnificently and muttered an apology.
That night he was so angry that he could not even sleep. He changed out of his pajamas and into some winter clothing, went downstairs, and headed out into the streets for a late-night stroll. He knew it was much too cold, and going out was rash, but he did not care.
He grumbled to himself as he kicked his way through the slushy streets of Hayburn. He had been a fool to come with them, he told himself. He had been a fool to withhold the truth about who he was, and his relation to Silenus. And he’d been a fool to take their orders and abuse without ever sticking up for himself. The more he dwelled on his problems the more poisonous and malicious they seemed. Eventually he began to suspect that the true purpose of the Silenus Troupe was to make life very hard for one George Carole.
But then he stopped and looked up, and realized he’d gone perhaps a little too far.
He had no idea where he was. It was very dark, and there was no one out. And even though he’d been here a week, he’d done nothing to study the layout of the city.
He began to walk toward where he thought the hotel and the vaudeville house were. But as he did the night sky turned dark and bruised, promising snow. When the first flakes drifted down he groaned and began looking for shelter. Yet there seemed to be nothing open, and soon the air was thick with white.
George trotted down an alley into a surprisingly large courtyard, and looked around in vain for some cover. The snow intensified until all he could make out was a frozen fountain and a lone streetlamp in the courtyard, which turned the falling snow into a magnificent pearl of radiance. Then he noticed a shutter for a coal cellar, and in his desperation he pried it open and slipped inside to sit on the mound of coal below.
If George had been paying attention he would have thought the courtyard a very curious place: the buildings around it were very tall and the walls facing in had no windows, and the fountain in the center featured four people riding chariots. The sculpted figures faced out toward the corners of the courtyard, and their cheeks were ballooned as if blowing enormous gusts into the sky. If George had seen the fountain he’d have thought it a strange addition to this very drab and empty courtyard, but as it was he simply sat on the coal with the shutter open, waiting on the snow and cursing himself.
It was then that George’s exceptional hearing again alerted him to something abnormal: from the sound of things, the snow was lessening outside until it became a slight trickle. But then, if he listened closely, the roar of the flurry seemed to still be going on somewhere around him. He poked his head through the shutter and saw that it had not stopped snowing; rather, it seemed to have stopped snowing only in the courtyard. When he looked to the four passageways leading out, he saw the snowstorm continuing just beyond. It was as though the snow stopped just where the courtyard began.
Then the wind rose and a figure appeared in the passageway, heading into the courtyard. George dropped the shutter until it was open just a crack, and peeked through.
When the figure passed through the veil of snow George saw it was a short, thick man in brown pants, a checked orange coat, a weathered cap, and a yellow silk scarf. His skin was a deep, golden brown, and his hair a dark black. He entered the courtyard and looked around languidly, and went and stood before a corner of the fountain to wait.
The wind whipped about again and a second person entered the courtyard from the next passageway. This one was a tall, thin woman with long black hair that curled into many thick ringlets. She wore a heavy seaman’s coat that had been patched in many places, and a light blue skirt that trailed behind her until the hem was dirty. Her skin was pale, but it had a faint coloring to it that almost made her look gray. She stood at the next corner of the fountain and gave the man in the orange coat a somewhat cold smile, which he did not return.
Then the wind rose once more and a third person entered from the third passageway: a huge old man, broad in the shoulders and with gnarled purplish hands. The skin on his face was a translucent bluish pink, and his hair and beard were frost-white and trailed down around his waist. He was dressed in a thick brown suit, and his enormous boots thudded as he crossed the courtyard. When he came to his corner of the fountain he smiled at the others. They reluctantly nodded back.
And then the wind rose one final time, and a fourth person entered, only this one was very different from the rest. As the figure came running in out of the snow George wondered if it was a dwarf of some kind, as it seemed so small, but when it came into the light he saw it was a short, mousy girl of about eighteen, dressed all in green. Her hair was a brilliantined gold, and her cheeks were apple-red as though she’d spent hours in the sun. She had large, green eyes and a timid mouth, and she seemed very dispirited to be there. When she took her place before the fountain the other three frowned at her. The old man in particular gave her a glowering look that seemed akin to one of hate.
George thought them a curious group, on the whole. Probably the most curious thing about them was that even though they’d walked in from a powerful snowstorm, all four of them appeared perfectly dry, and not cold at all.
“Well,” said the man in orange, “we are all now here. Finally,” he added, and shot the girl a black look. “I should hope we would all be a little more punctual. But it is not my time to direct this meeting, so I yield its direction.”
“Yes,” said the old man. “To me, I believe. It is my meeting, and my possession, and I shall decide when it begins and when it ends. Or does anyone object?”
“This is your doing?” said the woman in the seaman’s coat. She gestured to the sky. “It was a great inconvenience to us all. Or to me, at least. It’s irritating enough to have to part with my works to attend this meeting, let alone under these conditions.”
“It is my doing, yes,” said the old man. “It shall be discussed, and described. So there are no objections? No objections of worth, I mean?”
“No,” said the man in orange. “There are obviously no objections. Let us get started, so we can all return to what we were doing.”
“Excellent,” said the old man, and he motioned to the snow above. “As you can see, I have started by pulling the waters from the distant shores of the north. I have siphoned them up from around enormous ice floes. I have gathered them carefully from glittering fields of frost. I have chased and corralled them in the frozen clouds above. And then I have driven them south, threading them through mountain passes, summoning up pounding pressures when the land fell flat, letting my quarry balloon out over the countryside in a magnificent spume of white. It is an admirable storm, an absolute blizzard. It falls a little strangely, I must say—it tugs itself toward this city, as if it has its own mind. But it is no matter. It will embrace the land, gather the homes and the farmland into its folds and pull itself around them all. Roofs will groan under the weight of fresh snow. In the morning those that live here will awake to find the world completely changed. The very earth will be lost to them. No leaves, no flowers. No nasty tangles of roots or vines.” At that he shot the little girl a very nasty look. She did not seem to see; she simply stared forlornly into the stone slab at her feet.
“But that is not all that I will do. Once the storm spends itself I will gather my coldest, purest, iciest streams of air. They are playful, curious things, delightful little creatures. I will set them on these lands, allowing them to bob and weave through the towns, or snake between the naked, fragile trees, or dance over the frozen rivers. They will nose out gaps in homes and coats and
squirrel away inside, chilling bone and nose and ear. They have wandered for so long up north, my dear little breezes. How good it will be for them to stretch themselves out for a time! And when they come rippling and bounding over these hills, the snow here shall not melt. No, under their tiny, invisible feet, it shall become more and more compact, freezing the mud, the groundwater, the mightiest rivers. In a way, the storm above is but a white carpet rolled out for my dearest pets.”
“Dear to you,” said the woman in blue, “but not to others. To me they are vicious, nasty things, and I cannot bear the sight of them.”
“That is your opinion,” said the old man, “and you may speak it when it is your turn, but that is not yet.”
They were silent at that. The old man glared around at them and nodded. “Well,” he said. “That is all I have to say. These are the full intents of my possession.”
The other three considered what he’d said.
“It is not very original,” said the man in orange.
“What!” cried the old man. “It is very original!”
“I believe you loosed your pets last year, as well,” said the woman in blue. “Didn’t you?”
“Well, yes! But this time my breezes have been feeding themselves on the iciest currents imaginable! It will be a winter these people have never known! When they are old and trembling, they will tell their children’s children of this winter! As they should. Is there anything more perfect than the blank crush of so much snow?”
“We all have our preferences,” said the man in orange.
“Yes, but some are pure and perfect, and others boring,” said the old man.
“You and your storms…” said the woman. She shook her head. “I have spoken before of the clean purity of a chilly, sharp breeze I can bring in from the seas, but you will never understand.”
“No,” said the old man. “That is weak, and boring. It is a compromise, a shadow of a true love. I dislike it greatly.”
“Does that mean, Boreas,” said the man in orange, “that the blizzard and the release of your breezes is the full extent of your possession?”
The old man blinked to hear his plans so glibly described. “Well. Yes.”
“You are blinded by your obsessions,” said the woman in blue. “How carefully I arranged everything before your possession… I remember the clouds I pushed together in the eastern seas—frigid, heavy things of thick crystals, and once they spent themselves I used their spending to send thin arms of them spiraling off to graze these countries. Leaves grew gold and fiery red upon the tree, and the frailer foliage withered. And everyone remarked at what a beautiful season it was. Now they are all gone, buried beneath foot upon foot of dull, empty ice.”
“Your works were absurd,” said the old man. “They were weak and delicate. This land needed a great gust to blow all of your foolishness away.”
“Eurus’s works are her own business,” said the man in orange as the woman opened her mouth to respond. “Your possession will wane soon, Boreas, as does everyone’s. We all have our loves, and they are almost always lost when the possession changes hands.”
“Yes, but you must admit that hers are more absurd than most, Notus,” said the old man.
“Why?” said the woman in blue. “I demand an answer. I know the meeting and the possession of this season belongs to him, but he cannot simply insult at his will. I demand satisfaction.”
They turned to the old man. “Well, Boreas?” said the man in orange.
The old man smiled nastily. “The answer is very simple. The reason her preferences are so absurd is that she uses them to seek the love of these people.”
“That is not true!” said the woman.
“It is,” said the old man. “You wish for admiration, for worship. You are as bad as she is,” and at that the old man turned his gaze to the girl in green.
The man in orange and the woman in blue did likewise, glaring at her. Though each of them seemed to hold little regard for any other, the little girl bore the most disdain.
The girl in green looked up at the others and shrugged. “I do not make anyone love me,” she said.
“We all know that is not true,” said the man in orange. “They sing of you more than any of us. They rejoice for you, laugh with glee at the sight of you.”
“But I did not make them do anything,” said the little girl. “They rejoice of their own accord.”
“That is a lie,” said the woman. “You have fooled them. With your tricks. With your blooms and greenery. They cannot see the deep beauty of a leaf the color of rosy fire. They do not love the kiss of frost.”
“Nor the hot embrace of a storm’s blast,” said the man in orange.
“Nor mounds of snow like icing, or the bleak perfection of flats dusted with ice,” said the old man. “This is true. You have always courted their favor.”
“No,” said the little girl. “I only temper.”
“Temper?” exclaimed the old man. “What do you mean?”
“I try to do the least,” said the little girl. “All three of you have your favorite creations. Wet storms, and frost, and barren flats. They are extremes. I prefer moderation, mildness. A light shower, a placid wind. A cool heat, if I can find one to shepherd. I do not care for a hard touch, for a symphony in the sky. I prefer to be gentle. Is it my fault if most of them love that more? If the flowers and fields exult due to this?”
“Yes,” said the man in orange.
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Most absolutely, yes,” said the old man. “They reject my works most of all. They reject them outright, do you hear? I spend weeks forging the gentle crush of snow, sculpting pure clouds of gray. Yet they have forgotten my name, all of our names, but they remember yours. Because you have spoiled them.”
“Because you have deceived them!” said the man in orange.
“Because you have nothing to give,” said the woman. “I will not be able to say so in the next possession, so I shall say it now. It is because you are an unoriginal creature, one with no inspiration, no passion. You cannot think of anything to make for them. So you give them nothing. And by pure chance they have taken to it, and love it. And now they ignore us. Because of your foolishness.”
George had not really understood much of what these people were discussing up until now. They seemed an odd bunch, and possibly mad, though they had the demeanor of kings and queens. But he recognized cruelty when he saw it, and perhaps due to all the indignities he felt he’d suffered at the hands of the troupe he could not help but sympathize with the girl. So when he could no longer bear it he thrust the shutter open, clambered out, and shouted, “That’s enough!”
All four of them stared at him in surprise. The old man nearly fell over. As George stood up, black little clouds came roiling out of his clothes. He looked down and saw he was covered from head to toe in coal dust. Nevertheless, he walked to stand in front of the girl and face the other three.
“Who,” said the man in the orange coat, “are you?”
“I won’t have you talking to her this way!” he said. “What’s wrong with you all?”
“Where did you come from?” asked the woman. “How did you get in here?”
“Were you hiding in that cellar?” said the old man.
“Well… yes,” said George, embarrassed. “But that doesn’t matter! I heard all those horrible things you said! And to a little girl, of all things! Is everyone in this city so terrible? And she so underdressed for this weather, too!”
The three people exchanged glances. Even the little girl was watching him queerly.
“How did you get into this courtyard?” asked the old man. “How can you even notice it? This place is not for you, young man.”
George shrugged. “I… just ran in here out of the snow.”
“You ran here, of all places?” said the man in orange. “And at such a time?”
He glanced around himself. Now that he was standing in the middle of the courtyard, h
e noticed that it did seem a very unusual place. While he’d seen how large it was when he first ran in, it now felt like he could walk toward one of the walls and yet never actually reach it. And the buildings did not pen them in at all; rather, it felt like there was entirely too much sky here, and at any moment they might slip off the ground and tumble up into the atmosphere.
“What are you?” asked the woman.
“What am I?” said George. “I’m a… a pianist.”
“A pianist?” said the man in orange incredulously.
“Yes,” he said. “But… but I won’t have you talking to her this way. I won’t. It’s not right.”
The three people nodded, taking this in. They seemed satisfied by what he’d said.
“I say we kill him,” said the woman. “Yes,” said the man in orange.
“I agree,” said the old man.
George gaped at them. “What?” he said.
“It’s the only fitting thing to do,” said the man in orange. “Who will be the one to do the deed? I nominate you, Boreas, as you have the most experience with this.”
“I shall be happy to,” said the old man, and he began rolling up his sleeves. He stepped forward, and somehow he seemed even taller than before, tall enough that his head should have scraped the sky when he walked. George began backing away, terrified.
“Wait,” said the little girl.
The old man stopped. “Wait?” he said.
“Yes,” said the girl. “Just wait.”
“Why should I wait? He has invaded our private meeting space. He has listened to the Laying of Intents. He has seen us, when we have gone unseen for centuries in these countries. This is unacceptable.”
“But he didn’t know what he was doing,” said the little girl. “And he knows nothing about us. He simply ran here to find shelter from the storm.”
“Which is all the more questionable,” said the man in the orange coat. “How could he see this place? How could he notice it, or us? What is he, indeed?”
The Troupe Page 12
