Fainaru Circus -- Chapter Seven

It feels right strange, looking up at the massive beauty of the moon, each intricate design adding to the unbelievable texture of the sky. With each twinkling of the stars, the moon seems to reflect the illumination, letting off a wave of barely-seen dust. The faded purples, blues, whites, and oranges of the stars nearly engulf me into a hypnotic state as I let my head droop back farther and farther. Using my arms for support, my knees bunched up under me, I sit and wait for the show to end.

Soft lights behind me flicker in bright yellows and violets, the sounds of laughter from regular folk drifting over the landscape. Somehow, it feels as if their noise disrupts the cycle of the mountains. Their town is a good five miles away from the circus—Joker always did have a habit of camping a bit of a distance from settlements—unseen and unnoticed by the nature in this section of the mountains. With half of our caravan lost, we were forced to stop at several smaller villages and towns to collect extra money. It’s going to take ages to repair everything, and on top of all that…

Vical.

The thought of her jolts me, and I gag, snapping my head up abruptly as my hands cover my mouth. I feel sick. She isn’t dead… yet. Lucky was the one that found her; as soon as he heard the scream from the rubble, Joker tells me he bolted down the hill, jumping and rolling like an acrobatic deer. Apparently, just as Tammy caught up to Lucky to give him a hand, she saw the wreckage shift, a splintered board stabbing Lucky in the leg as he pulled Vical from the rubble. If he hadn’t got to her before it shifted, it would have gouged her throat.

Lucky might have saved her from instant death, bless his soul, but she still had one terrible injury. A support beam had pinned her on top of a slanted wagon wheel, and as the wreckage settled, the beam had snapped directly on her lower spine.

Vical can’t move her body from the waist down now. Tears well up in my eyes as I think about her and the elegant dancer she used to be. I bite my sleeve, thinking of the dull, near-lifeless eyes I saw when I first visited Vical after I woke up. She blinked at me a few times, her lips parted and her body limp. She didn’t move, nor did she speak; she only looked. Then she closed her eyes. I thought she had died, but apparently she’s been doing that ever since. Joker says she’s fighting the abyss. I wonder why he doesn’t just say ‘death’. Everyone else does; he’s the only one that avoids the term nowadays. Maybe he’s scared of the term and what it means.

I hear a twig snap, and turn to see Lucky limping toward me. He plops down in the damp grass, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. He blinks a few times, fidgeting, before awkwardly placing a hand on my shoulder. He pats it a couple of times in stiff, slow motions, avoiding eye contact. I sniff, and reach a hand up to place it over his. Without speaking, I know he gets it. Or maybe he don’t, and I just need the comfort. Either way, the simple, unexplained action reminds me of Joker, and I miss him. Not because he’s gone, but because he’s different now.

We both hear the applause as the show ends, and the bustle of people wandering shortly after. Tammy calls for Lucky, and I think he mumbles a goodbye. I don’t know how much time has passed since I first sat here, or when he sat down, or even when he left. It seems like moments ago, and yet an eternity at the same time. As my head tilts back and I am lost in the stars again, I feel a shiver rush down my spine in wriggling waves.

My eyes lock onto the moon, and the faded reflection of a blooming rose void of color expands across the pale surface. I freeze, and can’t move my eyes anywhere else. It’s not so much the empty feeling you get when you get lost in your thoughts as it is fear. The terror wells up in my throat, gagging me. I feel like I’m drowning as my heart pounds, the beats of a thousand hooves thundering inside of my chest. I feel her. I feel her watching me, even now.

I rip my gaze from the moon and force myself to look directly into the swirling darkness of the woods that now seem to suffocate the mountains. Her form flashes, but it isn’t like before. She’s faded and transparent, like a ghost of the horrifying figure I saw before… in the… village…

My memory feels as if it snaps into a million pieces as I remember the dull red eyes that glistened with recognition as her expression shifted, a hidden smile playing on her lips. That slow, deliberate wave from a slender hand that appeared to ring with intention; a morbid playfulness, similar to children singing a song about the dreaded Piper as they wander through the woods. She turns away from me, and I am left cold, but it is only a memory…

The real danger stands not but fifty yards away, thin hands resting on the trunk of a pine tree as her eyes flash like an animal’s. Her dark hair is no longer tied up, but falls eerily around her face, partially hiding her expression. Those hooded eyes… that swirling, sickening red that shoots me again and again as I realize that I can’t look away. Chunk wanting to look; I’d pay a billion if only I could break the staring contest we have going. Her image wavers as dread falls over her face, her hands pushing against the wood as she steps backwards, step by achingly slow step.

I hear Joker call to me, and blink. Even before my eyes open again, I know she’s gone. I am right. As faint words of dinner sail through the crisp night air to port in my ears, I stare wide-eyed into the darkness, afraid to keep looking but more frightened of turning away. Suddenly the haunting sickness in my gut fades like a broken thread, and I stand.

And gods, do I run. I run like the hounds of the Mistress of Hell are on my heels, nipping and foaming at the mouth as they hunt for my poor soul. I run like the end of the world has come to turn all of us into the horrid living dead—that’s a paradox right there. I run like Joker is waving raw carrots around, because I hate the things, have mercy on my soul.

I want to keep running till I find Vical’s tent and cuddle with her in bed while we eat and tell stories to each other. But then I remember she’s on her deathbed, and there ain’t no one else to run to. Except Joker. So I let my inner compass lead me to the dining tent, and I sit my sweat-dusted self as impossibly close to his side as I can. He thinks it’s sadness over Vical and Lucky, and I could care less.

I feel like I need to be reminded, over and over, that I am not alone. I am safe. Joker’s here, and he always will be. That’s just how it is. That’s how it has to be.

When Joker isn’t looking, I flick carrots from my plate and onto the ground beneath the long bench and seats we crowd around, watching Jester gobble them up. That’s one strange cat. He meows, but I don’t hear him, not really. I feel something like a worm in my heart that wiggles and stretches until there’s a dark hole. A deepening pit forms in my stomach, and my head throbs. Damn… I feel something about to happen. Unfortunately, I never feel anything good.

Another cursed flash of red, and I sigh aloud. Joker asks something, but I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything.

Nothing good at all.

***

As she stands, we slip back behind the stack of crates, disrupting both our view of her, and—more importantly—any view she might have of us. Our heart pounds, because we saw the red-eyed figure who stared at Charm. We know who she is. The question is… does the girl?

We fall back onto the blanket we had laid down to keep the moistness of the dirt from our clothes and out paper. Scooping up the leather-bound pages and a quill, we open the journal and begin to write furiously. With sweeping, frantic strokes, we make a rough sketch of the eerie woman with the red eyes; those lost eyes that seem to strike you through the darkness. Faint illumination pours from them, and it is as if she knows all.

Perhaps she is not so intelligent as that, but it would be wonderful to interact with her in such a way that might produce educational results for us. To learn from Death itself… there is no higher scholar, except perhaps Fate. But Fate does not make the mistakes Death does. Fate shall never tread the path that leads to his removal from the cycle. He is revered to be the most cautious of the known forces, and takes pride in the ability to back away and perform his duty.

As the final rough lines of the Lady Death’s ghostly form is gathered with our mind and projected with crumbling charcoal onto thick paper, we smile. The memory of her is already fading, as it always does; all of existence’s deities possess the strange ability to make all—or, at least, nearly all—who come into contact with them simply forget they were ever there. It only takes a few seconds for it to happen. In the case of Joker, we have no idea how he sidesteps this. It is the rarest ability; to remember what Death, Fate, Life, or Time itself does not want you to recall is to defy four of the greatest powers of the universe. He is not the only one, however. We have heard of people scattered about the world that have proven their ‘loophole’ through the laws of the universe. Of course, most of them are no longer living… the most recent was seven years ago; a blond woman with a heart as black and jealous as we had ever seen. But she died shortly after we had met her, so even that was irrelevant.

With the memory gone, we look back at the paper and sigh as the picture dredges up lost memories. Though we resent the frantic sketches and rambling words locked in chains across smooth paper, we know it is a must. Her visits must be cataloged; when, where, in what form, how, directed at whom, at what time, under what circumstances… It helps us to predict when she will make that fatal direct appearance.

Flipping through the previous pages that we had begun to refine, making notes neater and clearer as we outlined the drawings better, we sigh. At first it was subtle… but then she stepped out of pattern. This is what disturbs us; we had followed Charm into the town out of curiosity and a sickening feeling in our gut. We felt that she was near, and we were correct in assuming she would drift toward the girl.

Usually, the Lady Death gives us signs. Subtle and foreboding, each one escalates like a haunting until her first background appearance. Usually observing from afar, she continues to analyze a mortal soul or group of souls for extended lengths of time before making direct contact. It is usually off-handed and viewed by mortal souls as a chance meeting with a stranger, however queer the Lady Death’s aurora may seem. With a last encounter that is erased from the soul’s mind, she does her duty and moves back to her own realm. But this time… this time…

She skipped so many steps that appear crucial to proper invasion into a mortal realm. Barely any signs, no indirect contact, no observational stages, just… there. She simply appeared. It had nearly killed us to watch her gaze at Charm before leaving. Every nerve, every muscle, was taught and wavering as we resisted the urge to run after our Lady before she vanished once more. Was she toying with us? Or… Even more interestingly… has Death itself gotten desperate? We know that the Joker loves Death, but does Death love the Joker as well? We had always thought she was only humoring him, but now as the pieces fall and the puzzle forms a dark and foreboding picture, we begin to see the truth.

An idea forms, and makes us laugh involuntarily. The Mistress of Death is breaking the laws of the universe. By all rights, she shall soon be removed from the cycle, and a new Death will be chosen. Conversing with Death is plenty educational… but we suspect that being Death is far, far more productive. The process is so simple, we burst into hysterics. All we must do is to get one or the other to declare their love to each other… if our Lady does, then our Lady will be removed and the Joker killed and returned to the cycle to be cleansed. If the Joker does, then he shall still be returned and cleansed, but… if Death accepts… or refuses to deny his emotions… Death shall still be removed from the cycle. We win either way.

As the dinner bell rings a final resounding note, we stand, tuck our journal beneath our coat, and head to the cafeteria tent to eat. Biting our lip to keep a smile from spreading, we plan. After all, that’s what we specialize in. Unfortunately for the Joker, this time our scheming shall be far less productive for his petty circus.

To be Death itself… is there a higher achievement? As we bow in thanks to the Joker before sitting down with a plate, we snort. We think not.