Opening Night Part III: Ceremony

The girl spends the majority of the evening executing her number of scheduled performances before midnight, when the official opening ceremony will take place. Bethany wishes that perhaps she had some time to recover from the earlier shockwave, the one that seemed to happen only minutes after she was bound to the game, which nearly knocked her over with the force of it.

Her performances are scheduled tightly together, but because she can only do a limited number of them in one night, Bethany’s breaks are long. They take place in the times when the concourses are not too busy, when there are fewer potential audiences. She takes long walks through the concourses and pathways, roaming around the market as though she were any other patron.

She surveys the market with a mixture of amusement and delight. Some attractions are mundane tricks she is sure she could duplicate, given time or instruction. Others are complex spectacles of extraordinary wares or performances. She is sure she sees a merchant selling small mason jars carrying tiny stars, though they appear like small blue flames to the passing crowds.

The girl tests herself by distinguishing the stalls selling enchanted wares – textiles that change colour, or masks that change shape to suit the wearer’s needs – from the vendors that enchant their customers.

She passes a stall in which a couple laughs. They have signed away a year of their lives each in exchange for a hint about the future. They do not believe it, as the gentleman behind the counter directs them to the signature line, but Bethany thinks they should not be so hasty to sign.

She passes a stall full of dolls, many of which are in kimonos similar to the one worn by the petite Asian lady standing beside them. The doll-maker smiles at her, and dozens of dolls behind her hold similar expressions. Still, it is a warm gesture, which Bethany returns.

She finds herself on the opposite side of the market, and though the hour of her next performance is coming closer, she cannot bring herself to go back just yet.

The pathways here are now filled with silver light, like a softer layer of moonlight. The avenues are not busy, but that is because a crowd has gathered in one of the intersections, attracting attention from the pathways around it.

To her left and right, patrons are streaming past her to get a good view of whatever has drawn the attention of their fellow patrons. The girl, in the spirit of investigation and intrigue, joins the hustle. She finds a spot where she has a view between spectators, though the vantage point blocks her of an immediate face to put to the act.

From the first moment, in which a hand pulls a silk square from atop a cave, revealing a dead dove on its bottom, she knows this performance will be anything but ordinary.

The spectators part inches more, and she can see the man, who is barely a man, holding the cage for all to see.

The routine is clearly practiced, though he is not quite yet a consummate performer. He adds flourishes and smiles to his act, but his focus remains more on his work than the crowd.

There is a very small flash of light, purely quintessential, the girl knows, when the man in the dark suit holds the dove out, murmuring beneath his breath.

The dove’s soft coo is confirmation of what she already suspects.

The audience’s reaction is immediate, with several gasps followed by uproarious cheering and exuberant clapping.

His green eyes slide over her, as he smiles at the audience. He bows lowly and the dove flutters on his arm.

She smiles and claps politely. Finding her opponent/discovering her opponent’s identity, is not the challenge she foresaw/thought it would be.

While he is still bowing, though also gently settling the dove into its cage, she slips away, out of the crowd and into the light shifting from silver to pale gold.

She continues down the path, winding around corners, up and down avenues, feeling both lighter and heavier than she did earlier in the evening. After some time she emerges in the market square, where the air is rich with sweet aromas and the market hums with chatter.

The girl watches the statue of the book, light up by the lanterns around the square. Dread creeps up her spine, and excitement. She has the impression that the game, the game, will officially begin with the opening ceremony. On the stroke of midnight.

She waits in the crowd, inconspicuous with her black coat drawn around her, casting surreptitious glances at the watch on the wrist of the gentleman next to her, while she waits.

Boisterous patrons shift around her, taking no notice of the girl standing still in the market square. She thinks perhaps she is invisible in the milling crowd. It is not until the first pillar of twisted metal, one of several erected around the square, standing taller than any stalls, blazes to life with warm amber flames, do the market-goers stop. The gentleman’s watch reads ten to midnight.

There is a cacophony of murmurs and whispers, but when nothing happens immediately after patrons lose their interest. Their attention is drawn elsewhere and they continue to wander to various locations and oddities.

At nine to midnight, the next pillar lights, across the square. Several patrons let our shrieks of delight and surprise that quickly become laughter.

At eight to midnight another pillar blazes. A minute later, another.

When the penultimate pillar is lit, the crowd waits in hushed anticipation. Their eyes are fixes on the lights around them as they collectively hold their breath.

The flames, as suddenly as they appeared, vanish. Conversation halts entirely. For a moment the entire market is silent, encompassed in a quiescence. Not even a breath stirs the air. Then, then the ceremony begins.

They launch into the twilit sky with a shower of sparks. They streak over the crowds in a multitude of colours. One by one the market square shifts between vivid shades. It is first a shimmering deep blue, then following that is a deep violet.

Sparks the colour of rich wine succeed that.

The next is a still-deep rose red.

The market square is bathed in the colour of warm orange-red flames next.

It shifts to buttercup yellow, after.

The final streak of colourful sparks is such a deep green that for a moment the crowds appear as though they are within a giant luminescent emerald. Their cheers erupt with a canopy of sparks and small golden flames that ignite the air above the bronze statue of a book in the centre of the square. As the sparks fall, some of them land on curls of protruding metal and produce small dense clouds of billowing golden smoke.

Several patrons jump back, startled, but they are obviously delighted.

When the smoke clears, the bronze statue is covered in small flames dancing atop the metal.

The reaction is instant and exuberant. Several spectators that were preparing to leave and explore further avenues decide to stay, buy a cup of cocoa or cider, and talk while they watch the flaming bronze book.

In the light and spectrum of colour, the girl waits for an indication that the game has started. A sign. A feeling. There is nothing save for the bronze hue lighting the square, and the girl cannot tell what she is feeling, or what to do since the game has not started.

A moment later, the shockwave hits her.

The entire market square shudders, though judging by the giddiness of the surrounding patrons, it is not an all-encompassing effect.

As the crowd is doused in colour, she feels suddenly unstable.

In the shifting crowd, the girl is jostled with such force that she stumbles and falls forward. And arm goes around her waist to steady her.

When she glances at the gentleman who holds her upright, she sees he is not much older than herself, and in a suit of such deep violet that is it almost black.

“Excuse me, Miss. Are you alright?” he asks, raising his voice above the din of the market square.

“Yes, I- I just…” She finds it difficult to speak with the ground still tipping beneath her. And she is trembling violently. “There isn’t much room…”

“I can help you to a more spacious area if you do not mind being crowded for a moment,” the gentleman says.

When the girl nods, he takes her gently by the arm. The gentleman leads her on still-unsteady legs through the throng of patrons, who are still marveling over the opening ceremony, to a shadowed alcove between two tents.

In the darkness they have a modicum of privacy, and while she knows better than to stand in darkened alcoves with strangers, she feels enchanted by the distant lights and the aftereffects of the ceremony. And still lightheaded.

The gentleman keeps his hold on her arm, though he takes a step back, despite the lack of room. “May I inquire what happened?” he asks.

“I felt rather dizzy,” she says to him, with a smile. “I apologize if I startled you.”

“You need not apologize,” he assures her. His accompanying smile is warm and enigmatic, his expression difficult to decipher from the dim light and unfamiliarity, but he appears amused and politely concerned.

“Jean-Marc Marchand,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand to shake.

The girl responds, with her name – or a version of it, and shakes the proffered hand.

“Is there someone to whom I may escort you?” Mr.Marchand inquires. “Did you arrive with anyone?”

“No. I didn’t not exactly arrive. I work here,” she says.

“You do? I would not have thought it.”

“I suppose it is not so obvious when I am in cognito,” she says, glancing down at her black coat.

“I am lucky. My own outfit is inconspicuous enough that I can avoid being recognized as a vendor without disguising myself.”

The girl’s brow furrows. “You work in the market?”

“Indeed. I believe we have missed the beginning of the game,” he says, smiling apologetically. “My sympathies, Miss Morgenstern. We could of course begin immediately, but we are already well behind, I think.”

“Please do not call me Miss Morgenstern. Bethany will do. At least we did not miss the opening ceremony,” she says.

“It was spectacular,” he agrees. “I did not expect to win the game tonight, anyway,” he adds, after a thoughtful moment.

“It was a magical ceremony,” Bethany says. “Very beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” Mr.Marchand says, and her cheeks flush.

“Thank you.”

“Do you feel steadier now?” Mr.Marchand asks.

“Very much, thank you.”

“Bethany,” he says. “Do you require an escort back to your booth?”

She smiles. “Mr.Marchand, of course I do not require an escort. But I would love for you to accompany me, if it does not interfere with your schedule.”

Bethany accepts his out-held arm once more and accompanies him into the busy concourse. They walk on, taking twist after turn, stealing glances at one another underneath the swaying lanterns.

To anyone else, they would appear like a couple enjoying the warm summer night beneath the stars.

Art by Nati

Text by Lucie MacAulay