Chasing Shadows

Bensiabel wanders a well-lit path between tents in the early night. He wears a new suit in smoky grey, with silver buttons that remind him of Farrin’s theatrical garments, that was tailored specially for him.

His stomach rumbles quietly so he heads for the vendors around the moon mirror. He joins a line for hot chocolate and turns his attention to the silver moon while the customer before him places his order. Bensiabel looks at the sky where the moon is hidden by dark clouds. The clouds are not reflected in the mirror. He makes a note to ask Pamina about it later. His thoughts are interrupted a moment later when he is first in line.

When Bensiabel sees Sage standing next to the Moon Mirror, hands clasped behind her back as she looks pensively at the rippling surface, he is so surprised, his cup slips his grip, spilling hot chocolate and whipped cream on his hands.

It seems impossible to see her there, when only days ago Bensiabel spent an entire evening searching for her, and the subsequent nights watchful for signs of her presence in the circus.

Sage is walking in a slow circle around the mirror, her hands clasped behind her back. She has barely completed a full rotation of the mirror when she spots Bensiabel. She smiles, not in the way someone smiles at a stranger or an acquaintance they are passing but not stopping for, but in the way one smiles when recognizing a very old friend.

“Hello Bensiabel,” she says, as she approaches. Before he can respond Sage kisses his cheek.

“Hello,” he replies, his cheeks feeling flushed as she pulls away.

“I did not know you would be here at all,” Sage says inquisitively.

“Neither did I.”

“Well, never mind. You’re here, and it’s wonderful that you are. I… would you like to walk around the circus with me?”

Bensiabel does not answer immediately. Seeming discouraged and nervous by his lack of an answer she continues, “If you would like to, I mean. I thought you would.”

“Of course I would,” Bensiabel says when he feels recovered from his momentary shock. “I would love to.”

The relief Bensiabel feels is like a cold drink of water in the midst of a blazing summer. His chest feels lighter. He has been harbouring the fear that in the interim between their meetings, he and Sage will have grown apart. Yet they speak as easily as if they had never been apart.

When Bensiabel insists he is not hungry the three seek out new tents, which is not hard. They choose one at random, not pausing to glance at the sign, only throwing the curtain flap aside and entering. It is one of the biggest tents Bensiabel has seen, as tall as the acrobat tent, as vast as an open meadow, and it is entirely filled with stairs. Staircases that climb up and down and open to corridors that spiral back to other staircases. Some of them are upside down; some are angled to the side. As they explore they are often uncertain which way is up and which way is down.

Stairs of white marble twist around each other, winding at impossible angles and disappearing into their shadows. Chinese lanterns sway from hooks on the sides of the stairs, twined with roses, warm and amber like small suns.

Bensiabel loses Sage and Farrin momentarily. When they reappear at his side, under a pergola decked in soft white cereus, they go in search of a midnight snack, though it may be well past the hour.

Farrin directs them to a caravan in which a woman dressed in more feathers than Bensiabel has ever seen, even on a bird, presents them with sugared flowers drizzled with honey, free of charge. Bensiabel assumes it is because Farrin works in the circus but the woman smiles at him when she hands him the bag.

Beyond Farrin and Pamina, no one within the circus is aware of Bensiabel’s travel arrangements. Performers that recognize him believe he is one of the most arduous of patrons who follows the circus across the globe, though they are amazed by the devotion of one so young. Bensiabel wonders if the circus company is simply this generous with those so enamored with the cirque.

Farrin devours the confections, offering one to Sage and Bensiabel. Bensiabel tries one, reveling in the pure sweetness before realizing he is not very hungry yet. He politely declines more.

“I hate to do this just when we’ve seen you again,” Farrin begins, “But I have to go. They’ll be expecting me to help them put the animals to sleep.” He neglects to specify who ‘they’ are but Bensiabel and Sage do not ask, only bid him goodbye with a cheery wave before continuing their journey away from the Moon Mirror.

When they are some distance from the concourses Sage turns to Bensiabel, “Oh, this one is marvelous. Have you been in it?”

Bensiabel turns his head in the direction she is pointing, to a large tent black as midnight, speckled with starry crystals. He shakes his head.

“You must. It was one of the first ones I found. It’s like a dream!” Sage exclaims. She grabs Bensiabel by the sleeve and walks at a quick pace the opening. It is loosely tied with charcoal coloured ribbons and she releases his coat for a moment to pull the half-made knots apart. When they flutter to the side Sage pulls Bensiabel behind her, plunging them both into bright light.

Bensiabel is blinded momentarily as he stumbles into the tent. He appears to be in some absence of space until he realizes that everything within the tent is white. Crystals, clear as water, and sparkling like dew and sugar, erupt from the sides of the tent, creating such a canopy of glassy spikes over a path of flat white stones. The crystals are easily as tall as him, though some are even taller. They emit a gossamer glow, as though each holds its own star. The vision is so light and spectral he cannot be certain it is real. Yet the air smells of ice and sugar, and it is sweet to breathe, crisp in his lungs and throat. Bensiabel is hesitant to touch the crystals; they appear so fragile that they might shatter beneath his touch, but they are hard and smooth under his hands.

Bensiabel feels the sensation of half-remembered dreams. Fantasies conceived in fragmented moments of lucidity.

The phantasmagoria seems too sensational, too luscious to exist within a circus tent. It is an entirely different world. Yet Bensiabel senses something deep and ancient beneath it, some arcane power.

Sage leans toward him in a conspiratorial manner. “Isn’t it magical?” she asks, sotto voce.

“Yes,” Bensiabel says, unable to take his eyes from the arches and crystal weaving over the path before them.

Without a word they begin traveling, slowly, through the maze of pale crystal, occasionally stepping over glass-like roots that arch out of the ground.

“It makes you think of snow, doesn’t it?” Sage says quietly.

Bensiabel inhales and indeed it does smell chilly with a breath of something sweet, like apples.

“How do you follow the circus?” Bensiabel asks, ducking beneath a low glassy arch. “I have seen you at the circus every time since we’ve met.”

Sage does not answer immediately and for a moment Bensiabel is not sure she has heard him. When he opens his mouth to repeat his question she says “My parents are well acquainted with the circus’ owner… I’m sure. I am traveling with them while they do some business in the city.”

“That’s amazing,” Bensiabel says. “I did not know anyone could follow the circus.” Truthfully, he had not thought of the circus as having an owner. It seemed independent from any business or ownership. It seemed born of the moon itself. It was not there, then it was there.

“How do you follow the circus?” Sage asks.

“I am travelling with-“ Bensiabel falters when he remembers his promise to Pamina, his vow of secrecy. It seemed strange then as it does now. He ponders what to tell Sage. He does not want to break Pamina’s trust but he dreads the idea of lying to his friend. “My father has been sending me on business trips with a merchant. This is the farthest I have been from Corsica, so far.”

They pause in the centre of a tower of crystals, protruding at precarious angles overtop of them, glistening in the light, distorting their reflections. Bensiabel cannot see the walls of the tent from where they are, though he is certain that the tent cannot be this big. Sage weaves in and among spikes, slipping in the spaces between them as though they were in a copse of trees. Her laugh is soft as snow.

Bensiabel holds a hand against a crystal pillar that reaches far above him, its point blocked by his vantage point beneath interwoven arches. The crystal is smooth and cool. He gazes at it, concentrating on the centre of the crystal, thin as the fur of a feather, strong as the rock around it. A diamond core.

The rock cracks, jagged lines breaking up the surface, beginning at the palm of his hand and spreading farther beyond. The light within it dims, as through draining from the crystal.

Bensiabel pulls his hand back and the rock reforms, cracks lining up and drawing together like mist, gashes fading to pale white lines, then disappearing altogether.

Bensiabel stares at the rock for a moment before realizing Sage’s laughter has stopped. When he turns she is looking away, though he cannot tell if she has been that way for long or if she has just turned her head.

“Would you like to go now?” she asks. Bensiabel nods.

And uncomfortable silence settles as they follow the path through the crystals. Bensiabel tries to wish it away but he is also lost in thought, wondering to what extent his manipulation can properly be considered an enchantment. He would like to tell Pamina as soon as he can.

They reach the tent flap quickly, only visible by the silver grommets in the white canvas. They slip quietly through the tent flap, emerging in the winding paths between tents.

Bensiabel is surprised at the noise, he had not noticed how subdued each sound within the tent was.

They hardly speak as they make their way to the Moon Mirror, and then the vendors selling hot chocolate. Sage reflects on the tent they have just left, insisting she heard music, soft and twinkling, though Bensiabel cannot recall any.

When they have their hot chocolate they continue strolling among tents and caravans, taking interest in the sights that are now more visible in the dwindling crowd.

“That tent may be one of my favourite,” Sage says thoughtfully.

“What is your favourite tent?” Bensiabel asks her.

The Seven Seas,” she answers without hesitation.

“Why?” he asks. He recalls the tent, he has visited it before and embarked on the Maiden Mer, though he did not sail all the way to the lighthouse.

She sips her hot chocolate thoughtfully before answering. “Because it is almost exactly like being by the sea. It smells of salt and the breezes push the water against the boat and sound just like the roar of the surf.”

“Have you lived by the sea? Is that why you love it so much?” She has hardly ever offered information about herself and her origins are a mystery to him. For all her knows she simply rose from the waves like some protean creature. He hopes she will be more forthcoming since she volunteered her connection to the sea.

“I don’t know,” she says, to his surprise. She is visibly struggling to remember something, or to explain it to him. “I have seen the sea before, when I’ve travelled. Perhaps I like water, or am fond of ships. It is the way it feels. It may be so calm and beautiful on the surface while there is something entirely different beneath it. There is something hidden in the shadows and it is beautiful and mysterious and wonderful all at once.”

He cannot think of an immediate response, so he nods instead, though he is not sure it is the proper thing to do.

While he thinks Sage asks, “Do you have a favourite tent?”

He ponders the concept of a favourite tent for he has never before considered one better or worse than another. But he can think of one in while he feels the most at home.

“Muses,” he replies.

“Why?” she asks, tracing the black silhouette of a bird on her paper cup. She folds the rim of the cup in such a way that the bird’s wings seem to flap when she shifts it back and forth. Bensiabel watches her as he collects his thoughts.

“I like stories,” he admits finally. “All of those tales told in pictures and words, and they feel so real that when I read them I forget I’m anywhere but in the story.”

“I cannot say how glad I am to see you again,” Sage says and then blushes.

Bensiabel feels rather warm, despite having forgotten his scarf in the flat Pamina secured for him in the city. “Me too,” he mumbles.

They sit in silence before returning to the subject of the circus, briefly planning how they will spend subsequent nights, adapting their agendas for Farrin’s company. When they have schedules for each night they assume they will both be attending the circus, Sage and Bensiabel discuss their lives beyond the circus. He finds it odd that she considers something as mundane as the vineyard interesting, and she seems surprised he asks her so much about the exotic places she has traveled.

The sun arrives much more quickly than Bensiabel had anticipated, his energy has not waned at all through the night though he had not napped the day before. When dawn is visible on the horizon, a thin ivory line atop the cityscape, he and Sage seek out one last tent to spend their last moments at the cirque in. Bensiabel discovers a labyrinth that exists on several planes and multiple floors, which huge white balloons propelled by silver fire, transport them to. The sharply curving hallways lead to further corridors and oddities. When Bensiabel tries to retrace his footsteps he does so without success. The labyrinth has swallowed up the hallways he emerged from, like a map shifting routes as soon as they are taken.

They find a room filled with fractured glass held together by silver frames, like dragonfly wings, that reflect multicoloured light around the walls.

Sage suggests a game of tag. Before Bensiabel agrees she has bolted away. He chases her around twisting halls and giant pillars, like a cat chasing a shadow.

Art by Alexander Jansson

Text by Lucie MacAulay