Moon Child

Farrin is cirque-born. Or moon born as the more wistful of the circus folk decree. Born on the very first opening night in Prague, beneath a full moon shadowy with craters. It is a joke among the circus folk he is as pale as the moon he was born under, skin white as paper, hair silver blonde like the crescent of moon still visible in a coming dawn.

A pelt of silky snow-white fur is sent to his parents, a note attached mentioning only that it is meant for Farrin. There is no indication as to the identity of the gift-giver.

His cradle is a piece of dark ebony, hung with a mobile of shaped and sanded pieces of mirror that send lights flickering over his blankets and the walls, like silver fireflies. He smiles but remains quiet, watchful with his dark eyes.

His twin sister, Artemis, whose birth follows seven minutes after his, dies six minutes later. In thirteen minutes he has been a brother, and then not.

It is a delicate situation for all, the mother torn between grief and unbridled joy, other members of the cirque offering both condolences and congratulations.

Artemis is cremated, her tiny body turned to ashes that are swept into an urn, provided by someone anonymous, as nobody will confess to sending it to them. The urn is pale green and decorated with dragonflies in iridescent silver, the word mutationem running around the rim in such italicized and looping script they are almost unable to discern the sentiment.

His birthday is a bittersweet affair, as his parents must celebrate with cake and his favourite warm apple cider and mint lemonade, while the anniversary of their second child’s death looms over them.

He is raised not only by his parents, but by the rest of the circus folk; escorted around the circus when they do not have any scheduled performances, shown this trick or that. They become an extended family and he is well liked for his quiet and clever disposition.

Attempts are made to school him with private lessons, but these lesson times become so few and far between that they are abandoned within the year and he is left to his own devices.

He devoured books, listened with rapt attention to patrons who sat around the moon mirror, discussing business of recent trips abroad or across the Atlantic.

He is immersed in new languages every week; Farrin collects languages like he collects books, learning new dialects in a manner of days. By the time the circus has left Barcelona and embarked on the journey to San Francisco, he is fluent in Spanish and Catalan. He is so gifted that by the age of thirteen he can grasp the basics of a language between breakfast and supper, and know the nuances by the next evening. 

Farrin learns his silence from the circus itself, when he emerges in the shadows of tents mid-performance and holds back any sound, though each circus performer always acknowledges him with a nod. He does not frequent the tents, as he knows the company is busy all night, but if the crowds are very large or he is too tired, he will take a short cut from the Cross Roads or the Bone Forest, passing by fire eaters and jugglers on his way.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Warnings

“What have you been doing?” her father asks her one day, as she goes back and forth between the symbols in a particularly old and complicated book on a system she cannot quite fathom, and the symbols decorating the pages of her own leather bound volume.

She looks up in surprise, something akin to fear rising in her chest. “Studying,” she answers, for she supposes what she has been doing does involve some form of study.

“That is not what I meant,” he says, and she cannot feign ignorance anymore.

She picks up a pen from her fathers desk, her hand trembling slightly under his gaze. She draws the raven in flight, as though it has just risen from a perch. When she removed her pen, it is already shaking out its wings.

The bird picks itself slowly from the paper, feather by feather emerging, becoming soft and downy but smelling strongly of ink. The bird opens it beak but makes no sound except the rustle of feathers as it prepares to fly. It hovers around her shoulders momentarily before taking off for the highest shelves.

It performs it customary path of flight, followed by her eyes. She smiles slowly, her face brightening, when it flies across her skin, tickling her collarbone.

“When did you learn that?” he asks pensively, his dark eyes on the bird, slowly turning to her.

“I taught it to myself,” she answers, meeting his eyes though she desperately wishes to look back at her raven.

Her father rises, standing tall before the desk. He tilts his head back, piercing the bird with his gaze. It ruffles its feathers, as though nervous, though she remains in her chair, wearing a stony expression and watching impassively.

Suddenly the bird launches itself off the shelf, aiming for her father, diving with outstretched wings. She sits tall and tries to focus, tries to divert the bird but it will not move from its path to her father’s heart. It gains speed, losing feathers and becoming a streak of black in the air. It crashes into her father’s velvet sleeve, ink splattering onto his vest and collar, black feathers thrown into the air. When they have settled on the ground the bird is perched on his white lace cuffs, now ink stained, regarding her father forlornly.

“Very impressive,” her father succeeds. He firmly, ignoring his daughter’s protest, grabs the raven by the neck and twists. It remains a bird only seconds longer before melting into a pool of ink on the floor. Similar black puddles litter the floor and shelves and the floor at her father’s feet where there had been, seconds before, soft black feathers.

Her father grabs her roughly by the jaw, tilting her face up.

“But you will never again teach yourself these tricks, nothing that I have not taught you. Do you understand?”

She nods as much as she can and her father releases her, long red marks from his fingers on her chin. She retreats to her chair, curling her legs under her and pressing her back against the grey cushion. The ink on the floors vanish, as though they have never been there.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Flights of Fancy

In her boredom she plays with paper birds. Rather, she plays with birds on paper. The birds are sketches in ink, damp and rich and black. Beneath the tip of her pen they flutter across the paper, onto other papers that lie in the chaotic pile on her father’s desk. They grow and shrink, becoming as big as two or three sheets of paper or as small as her thumbnail. They sweep across words, sometimes picking up letters that blend into the darkness of their feathers. They leave streaks of ink in their wake. Sometimes, when she is particularly restless, they leap off the parchment and onto the floor or the walls, black on grey stone, flying in arcs and loops around the room. They disappear behind the bookshelves, or into the books, causing the shelves of the bookcase to expand, as the tomes it contains seem to breath with the movement of the ravens inside them. They gravitate toward the windows and become lithe shadows against the black glass panes. She watches them, makes games of having them chase one another across any surface, sometimes across her skin, feeling only a soft caress when larger birds pursue smaller creatures, until the larger birds decrease in size and become prey, hastily changing direction and soaring over her ankle, down her toes and across the floor. When she becomes tired or feels her time would be better spent studying, she reluctantly calls them back to the papers. Flocks of madly swirling black feathers descend onto parchment, becoming paralyzed images once more. Unless she has drawn too many, released too many into the study, and they return to the paper, soaking it heavily with ink until it is black and wet, crumbling apart in her stained fingers. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Second Encounter With the Man in Black

The birds in the tent turn their heads, dozens of large glossy black eyes rest on him.

He frowns and the heads turn back, birds frozen and eyes fixed. Sage puts her hand over her mouth to muffle a gasp.

“You changed them,” she says, sounding unsure, as if she wonders if what she just saw was real or not.

“It was not hard to do. You do not know how to stop me.” He pauses and eyes her, his expression inscrutable.

“Have you always been able to manipulate?” He asks.

Sage thinks for a moment, to the first instance she can remember something strange happening. It was in the orphanage, before the Beaulieus, when Sage had lost her temper with her literature instructure. Tired and hungry, she did not have the best control of herself, and one of the nearby windows had shattered. It may have been an accident - indeed to everyone else it passed for a frightening coincidence - had she not felt herself push on the window to break, even without touching it.

She nods. “I think so.”

Art by Rubis

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Of Soirees and Stars

Twice or thrice a year, the Beaulieus host a nocturnal party. It begins in the moments just after the sun has sunken beneath the horizon and ends when the stars fade and give way to the blush of dawn. These functions are partly to stay in touch with faraway friends or acquaintances they’ve hardly seen, and partly, Sage suspects, to provide the Beaulieus with new opportunities for business ventures. Whatever the reason, they occur in autumn when the leaves are in full flares of colour.

The invitations are sent to far flung cities, embossed in gold and decorated with Nepalese paper.

For these occasions the artifacts are cleared from surfaces and replaced with champagne glasses with rainbow coloured flutes.

La Maison Beaulieu is bedecked with rich tapestries and lengths of fabric, silks and lace from distant corners of the world, the more casual of which are usually draped over the backs of chairs or hung from curtain rods. For the parties they replace these with the finer of their fabrics collection, bolts of satin from Transylvania, covered in crystals or embroidery in gold thread, and hang them everywhere they can. They suspend them from the ceiling so it appears as a rainbow, dripping with azure, rose, sienna and lavender. 

Music is provided, bands found who are adorned with gold and copper masks with crystals that wink and catch the lantern light. They carry polished instruments and while they meet the eyes of curious guests or music lovers who watch them for a moment, enjoying the ethereal blends of jazz and classical, they are silent the entire night.

Further entertainments happen on especially festive occasions, when the Beaulieus choose to celebrate their latest accomplishments, or the comings of new ones. Dancers arrive in black or white costumes, conservative amongst the rainbow of guests, but striking and elegant. They spin and jump with incredible grace, as though they were made of water and wind instead of flesh.

On occasion, instead of the dancers there are magicians, who stand on the makeshift stage with long capes and pristinely kept black top hats, who release doves from the folds of their jacket with the flourish of a white-gloved hand. Sage watches them and claps politely, but she keeps her eyes where the magician does not direct them, watching what no one else sees. She is aware of the slight of hand, yet she does not wish to shatter the illusion and chooses to remain out of conversation at these times, to avoid speaking her mind or having to lie.

The staff of the Beaulieus’ house, usually dressed in black, are dressed in blue, easily identifiable, though their faces remain a mystery because they are shrouded with masks. The Beaulieus think it festive, and each mask twinkles at the corners of the eyes with silver and gold stars. They balance silver trays above the bustle of crowds and serve champagne and ice wine earlier in the evening, before the food is served, and coffee and tea in the last hours of dawn.

Food is provided from the time of the last arrival of a guest to the minute of their departure. A parade of pastries and delicacies shaped into flowers, stars, whole blossoming gardens of fruit and icing. Five pointed aniseed cakes, honey dipped apples and late berries in cream. Mint and gooseberry jellies are molded into orchids and roses, miniature castles are erected in marzipan, and meringues burst with rich and exotic flavours of cream, no one of the same, so many are sent around groups of companions for tasting.

Sometimes, when these parties fall within a month of Sage’s birthday, the Beaulieus present her with an early- or late- birthday cake and share the occasion with the guests. The guests clap politely, and though many shake her hand or press a light kiss to her cheeks, she can hear them whispering that they were unaware the Beaulieus even had a daughter. The excitement of her birthday gives way to scheduled show for the evening and she blends into the crowd once more.

They are a sought after sensation, elegant soirees.

Sage is once very fearful of these soirees, feeling claustrophobic in such crowds, shy in her best gowns with her hair piled on her head and adorned with nets of crystals and pearls. She becomes fond of them, when she grows accustomed to the size of the party, the numerous introductions and compliments. When she iss older she becomes expert at blending into the crowds and making her own introductions, and quietly exiting the main rooms to enjoy some peace among the alcoves filled with familiar books before returning, feeling refreshed. Now she watches the crowds with interest, maintaining conversations with infectious laughs and clever comments, just long enough to appear polite and interesting, before feigning a previous promised engagement or errand she must attend to. She sits back in a comfortable chair out of the way, watching the events of the evening unfold, preferring the solitude to better watch the guests.

She sees the man in black only once and remembers him with great clarity. When she has recovered from her shock and risen from her seat she cannot see him among the flock of guests ablaze with vibrant suits and gowns. When she later questions the Beaulieu’s they do not seem to recall such a guest, but they look over their list and are genuinely apologetic when they have no record of an invitation to the nameless man in black.

Her favourite pastime, when not listening to conversations or watching physical interactions – slight gestures of fingers on a wrist, a hand around a waist or a glance from under eyelashes that tell much more than words do – is to play with the star lanterns that hang in each room. The Beaulieus have an interest in the stars, a love for the celestial, and it has become a signature for them in business and scholarly pursuits. Thus began their tradition of marking the parties as their own by hanging each room with a multitude of stars. Each star is made of expensive paper imported form Italy or Japan, cut out with shapes of smaller stars, flowers, spirals or leaves. Within them are tiny lanterns that cast rippling shadows on the walls and on the faces and shoulders of visitors. To Sage, they each appear as their own star. She prefers these parties in the summer, when it is warm enough to open the glass windows, or the doors to the gardens so that the breeze causes the star lanterns to sway gently.

It is at one of these parties that Sage learns of the circus. The circus never notifies cities or residents of its arrival, no proprietors send letters, no bulletins are put up, it is not featured in the local paper. News of the circus travels by word of mouth, which Sage believes is the most efficient method. She suspects there are more gossipers in the world than there are readers of newspapers.

She overhears mention of a circus, open only at night, traveling unannounced throughout the world with no apparent route, that has opened just outside the city. The words come from a man she has known since she was thirteen and first invited to the Beaulieus’ party. He is a professor of history in the university in Dublin. He wears his customary blue suit, she has never seen any variation of his outfit on these occasions, and his silver rimmed glasses. He is speaking to two women Sage might have met briefly, but has forgotten the names of.

They are a party who speaks on things en vougue, current ballets and theatre productions. That the circus comes up is no surprise to Sage, who has seen circuses in multiple countries. It is the way he speaks of it, like a man waking from a beautiful dream, still lost in a fantastical haze, that intrigues her.

“It is only open at night, it turns silver under the moon. I cannot explain it, it is beyond the celestial. Our hosts might like it; I know I’ve spent two nights there. Not sure when it leaves, only arrived a few nights ago. No, I’m afraid a simple description will not suffice, my dear. You must go see it for yourself.” The women look amused, as though he is a young boy eager to share an interesting fact from a school day, but his expression is serious.

Sage makes her way to the group, smiles and introduces herself. They shake hands before she speaks, “I’m deeply sorry for overhearing, but what of this circus?”

The women grin to each other. “Oh dear, you’ll start him off again.”

The professor frowns. She learns very little, but she is told where to find it, and she thanks him before remembering she must go speak with her mother. She walks in the direction of her mother, yet instead, reclines on a daybed. The circus would seem a good way to spend a night, maybe two, if it is as fantastic as the professor exclaimed.

It is a few hours before dawn. She gazes at an ivory star suspended above her until bright spots dance before her eyes.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Collection of Seas

Sage keeps a collection of bottled ships in her room. When she began they only occupied her desk and the shelves, but now they have expanded to sit on her nightstand, the trunk at the end of her bed. They line her windowsill and stand in a perfect row against the baseboard. They are perfect miniatures, masts and riggings to scale, in perfect condition. Her favourite she keeps resting on the stack of books to the left of her bed. The figure head is not in the shape of a mermaid, as many of her other ships’ are, but a great rearing horse with a fish tail where its legs would be.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

A Hint of Rosemary

The walls around the doors are dilapidated, crumbling rock, cracks wide enough to walk through and into the shadowy garden beyond. The door arches over her in a great carved likeness of crashing ocean waves, silvery and blue, so familiar she can almost taste the salty wind and hear the roar on invisible surf.

She twists the handle and the door sticks, with a little more pressure it swings open slowly, catching on withered ivy.

The garden is a labyrinth of putrefying wet greenery, flyblown rose bushes and scraggly low growing shrubs, withered climbing clematises and shriveled berries. There are low weather beaten stonewalls that curve around fountains no longer filled with water, and hazy grey lanterns, circling in toward a colossal hedge maze.

A gigantic oak stands at the entrance to the maze, twisted and gnarled with blackened branches, roots pale and fracturing with age. A huge fissure runs through its middle. It smells heavily of rotting wood, deadened and choked by tendrils of ivy.

The hedge maze is foreboding tall and dark and overrun with twisting roots and branches. She enters cautiously, glancing to the towering hedge, where only a pocket of sky is visible. The pathways are slightly claustrophobic, so winding and dark and close, fill of neglected flowers with sharp thorns. There is a hint of rosemary among the impossible angles the paths create.

She enters slowly, running her fingers over the green walls as she makes her way. She finds no dead ends, does not walk in any circles. She feels compelled in certain directions, to go left or right at a fork in the maze. She finds the middle soon, very soon, and cannot remember her path back, yet she feels unconcerned. The clearing may once have been taken care of, but the white statues covered in moss are falling apart, limbs and faces lying across the leafy ground like cracked ice. Cobwebs thick as swaths of fabric lay in the crooks of arms, the space between ram’s horns. The moss has become dry and brown but it still spreads over the expanse of the statues’ bodies, blurring the only features they may have maintained.

Leaves crackle behind her. When she turns, he lifts his great snowy head and regards her with cold blue eyes.

“Is this where you come from?” she asks. She does not expect an answer. When he turns and disappears behind a hedged corner, she follows. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay