The church bell rang out suddenly as though heralding her decision, but it was not cacophonous in the gloom. It was as though it supported her choice, as though this was indeed the holy hour and she had come to the right place.
Resolved, and more than a little comforted, Elise started towards the church. She would go in, sit a while, light a candle, ask for guidance maybe – who knew, maybe she would even get a miracle. A second coming. Smiling to herself, she reached out to grasp the brass handles of the doors, noting how surprisingly shiny they were in the dark, and hauled them open. The wind whistled past her, streaming into the church as though some giant had bent to inhale on the other side of the building. Elise felt as though she was sucked through the threshold, rather than pushed, and fell to her knees on the floor, her palms coming down hard on the stone beneath her. The sting and shock of it robbed her of breath and it took a long moment for her to gather her wits. She was not young, had not been for a very long time, and she wasn’t used to this sort of exertion. It all came flooding back to her, the grief, the walk, the darkness, the fall... In the sudden silence that followed her entrance, a surge of everything she had and should have felt shot through her – shock, denial, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression, hope. All seven stages. All at once. It was the last, however, that stayed with her, that buoyed her back to her feet. Hope. That old scoundrel, the number one tease. With one hand on the pew to her right, she swung around to look into the body of the church proper. The nave.
Quiet bodies were scattered amongst the pews, bowed heads in prayer. As each raised their head, having finished their particular invocations, they rose and slipped away into the night, not through the door, but into the air, their bodies evaporating like mist into the ether. Elise blinked as one supplicant faded and another took their place. Once they had appeared, they would sink to their knees and kiss the ground before settling themselves onto the wooden pews to pray. She did not understand at first what she was seeing, but somehow she found herself sitting amongst them, towards the back of the nave.
That was when she saw him. At last. He was sitting alone in the middle of a pew a few rows in front of her. She would recognise the back of his head anywhere. Tears smarted at her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wanting to ruin this impossible sighting. Hope. Again. It was irresistible and she couldn’t stop herself, could not hold back. Standing, she ignored the sudden shaking in her legs and walked out of her row into the aisle, heading forwards, making her way to him.
The air was soft around her, the candlelight, which could not have been candlelight because there were no candles, guiding her on her way. A few small steps and she would be there with him, beside him.
At last.
The sound of children laughing behind her, of them playing long forgotten games with nothing but their imaginations rather than the technology that ruled the younger generations these days, did not deter her from her path. She knew they were there, knew they were the souls of those lost too soon. They were no threat to her. They were merely waiting for their people, for when the time came for them to say their prayers and be together again. Her heart ached for them, for those waiting to be with them, but still she walked on. Those few small steps seemed to last forever.
And then...
He turned to look up at her as she approached him, the warmth of recognition lighting up his familiar face. How she loved that face, how lost she had been without it and, now, it was there in front of her, he was there in front of her and coming home had never felt so wonderful. He did not speak; just smiled that beautiful smile of his. Her heart swelled to bursting and she went to him, her hand outstretched to grasp his as soon as she could manage it. His touch was thrilling, like the first time he had touched her when they had read Shakespeare together for her college course an eternity ago. The frisson of excitement she felt was more real than anything she had experienced since well before his funeral, since she had watched them all say goodbye to him as the curtains had closed and he had gone into the furnace beyond. She had slept with his ashes ever since, not telling anyone lest they thought her crazy. It had been months. Nothing in the house had been touched since that day; the cards still sat on the mantelpiece, the teacups in the dishwasher doubtlessly consumed by mould. Her friends’ patience had been the only thing to change. She wasn’t sorry to lose touch with them. So utterly lost in her grief, why would she have been? She had longed only for him and now here he was in front of her, his hand in hers, his eyes on her face, his smile only for her. She had promised him a thousand times or more that she would never leave him. She kept her promises.
‘Hello sunshine.’ She whispered the familiar endearment, not wanting to raise her voice and break whatever spell this was. His smile deepened and he pulled her towards him. As she sat next to him, their hands still clasped, Florence joined them, nestling between her feet, her muzzle resting on her knee. Elise reached out with her free hand to touch the wiry white fur. Florence belonged there as much as they did, she knew. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. The urn containing her ashes had sat on the mantelpiece long before the condolence cards had joined it. It had sat there for five years, four longer than the cards. Such a long year, but now she was here it didn’t matter. She had waited long enough. They were all together at last. Resting her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes and smiled.
The rumours concerning the discovery of Elise Harper’s body spread like wildfire through the town. How could it not? It wasn’t a place much accustomed to anything happening let alone a suicide. It was the next best thing to a murder. Not many people had known the old woman well, although many knew her by sight. She’d kept to herself for the most part, even more so since her husband had died the previous year. Few of their friends were left now and those that remained had not spoken to her for some time. Isolated herself, they said, couldn’t come to terms with his death, they said. Marie Travis at the Post Office reckoned she must have been planning it for a while, saving the painkillers for her arthritis to go with the expensive bottle of brandy she’d bought from Wilmington Wines, the one Bob Wilmington had thought he’d never shift. She couldn’t, however, explain why Elise had left the back door to the house wide open so any Tom, Dick or Harry could just stroll in and take their pick. Mind you, it was anyone’s guess as to who stood to inherit it all. No one could decide why she had chosen that day to end it. She’d lost her husband less than a year ago and they’d been married in May not December, so it wasn’t an anniversary as far as anyone knew. Of course, no one could say for sure if it had special meaning for her or her husband – they’d had virtually no family, just each other, and their secrets died with them.
Most of all, however, no one could explain the red dog lead she’d been holding in one hand.
In the Mouth of the Beast
Li Huijia
From: Noir Carnival
The tent flaps were down. The air buzzed with half-formed conversations. Figures young and old, male and female filled the seats, each face beaming with anticipation. Slowly, the lights flaring upon the seats dimmed. For a moment, the tent was steeped in darkness, then the stage lit up, its brightness punctuating the audience’s fading murmurs. Showtime.
On stage was the jump ring, already oiled with kerosene. Torches blazed at the sides of the stage, projecting their fiery heat into the crowd, feeding their excitement.
Somewhere to Rosalie’s left, carnivalesque music blared. The ringmaster’s voiceover started up, chill and quiet, growing louder as he listed her achievements, building up expectations. Soon, he would be announcing her name.
‘... Rosalie! Bride of the Beast...’ A fanfare sounded.
She strode on stage; whip in hand, ruby hair held in a braid. Her body was clothed in a glittering suit of silver, a delicate silver rose sat at her throat. She looked out from her place, sweeping her gaze across the audience, waiting for him to enter the stage.
’The stuff of legends... king o
f the beasts... Charlemagne!’ The voiceover continued, heralding the end of his announcement with the blare of a trumpet.
He came onto the stage, his golden mane made brighter by the flames, each stride soft and deadly, clawed paws padding silently on the ground, almost as if he were circling prey. His fur shimmered, brilliant, blinding in the stage-light. He approached her steadily, stopping mere inches away. He raised his gaze and met hers; regarding her dark grey eyes with his own golden ones.
She cracked her whip. He replied with a low-throated roar, as if in apology.
She heard the audience gasp, as they did every night. Her heart lurched suddenly. That was a surprise. She had not felt anything for a very long time.
‘I can’t.’ She shook her head, halting once more at the door. ‘I don’t want to.’
Charles, who had reverted to his handsome form only days ago, gave her yet another crushing embrace, sealing it with a kiss.
‘We have to, Rosa. There is nothing left for us now.’ He gestured at the empty room, the windows looking out into nothingness, the once beautiful rose garden fading as they spoke.
‘This is a curse worse than yours, this, never-ending repetition of our fate.’ She clenched her fist, so hard that a scarlet crescent started to form. A drop of blood ballooned from her broken skin. She pressed her hands to the doorframe, ignoring the sting, willing the door into oblivion, wishing for another way out.
‘Would you rather we stay here? In this fading room? We have no food, no furniture, no servants, no land. It is a sign for us to begin again. There is no life after the last page, Rosa. You know that.’
She sobbed then, wishing desperately for something to smash, but there was nothing left even for that. The walls were fast disappearing, the doorway was the only solid thing left in the room.
‘I just don’t understand,’ she seethed, ‘I don’t understand the point of it all. Why let us go through all that – your curse, my departure, my father’s illness... why all that to finally be together, and then never let us know what comes next? Why?’
‘What comes next is happily ever after. You know that.’
She shook her head, a tide of red curls swinging wildly around her. Even the ribbons holding her braid were vanishing.
‘This? This is not happily ever after! This is nothing. This is a trap. And I want out.’
‘You know there is no way to leave. Either we stay here until everything fades but the doorway, like we did the last time. And we’d still choose to pass through it once we start starving.’
She bit her lip, recognizing the faultlessness of his words. But the deep unwillingness to admit defeat remained, looming larger and larger within her, twisting her insides in the wish for more than her share of life. ‘I know. But I wish... I wish we could find a way out of this.’ She whispered.
Charles pressed his body against hers, stroking her hair gently. He was used to her hysterics, she thought. They had been through this countless times, in countless cycles. She wondered again, why the forces dictating the reprisal of their roles at the end of every read had decided upon the cruel joke of restoring their memories every time the book ended. It would have been much easier if they remembered nothing at all.
Fools. The ones who own us are fools.
And then, something different.
The doorway disappeared too.
Floodlights dyed his golden mane a platinum blonde. The audience faded away, their applause a dim noise at the edge of her concentration. Eyes still on Charles, she motioned for him to begin the series of warm-up acts that would lead to the finale. She motioned, a single sharp gesture, he ran a loop around her. She waved, pointed, he leapt on the nearest stool. Another flourish of her hand, he leapt down, back again, up another higher stool, balanced all four limbs upon it, then stopped to regard her.
On cue, someone placed a chair at the side of the stage. She went to it, dragged the worn wooden thing across the stage, deliberately letting its legs scrape the floor in a painful jangle. His ears peaked, his wiry whiskers twitched once. When she and the chair were at an angle directly facing the stool where he crouched, she halted, sat down, crossed her arms, and met his eyes.
They regarded each other in silence. The audience’s murmurs had stopped as well, replaced by the hush of held breaths.
He raised his head, emitted a low growl from his throat.
She waited, counting to ten in her head. Then, she began reciting.
The man who appeared in the nothingness gave an extravagant bow, accentuating his movement with a sweep of his cloak. It was the most beautiful cloak she had ever seen, midnight blue velvet shadowed with stars - a universe of unfamiliar constellations spiralling in and out of existence upon the undulating fabric.
‘Who are you?’ Charles had moved in front of her, blocking her from the newcomer.
‘Come now, I merit no such hostility.’ The wiry man tipped his hat, thin lips quirking up into a wide grin beneath his slick moustache. ‘You wished for me, so here I am. Your personal fairy godmother, wish granter, genie counterpart, portal to another life... Yada yada yada.’ He reached for her hand.
‘I wished for no such thing.’ Charles knocked the stranger’s hand away. He fixed his golden gaze upon the man, daring him to advance. It would have been more intimidating had he kept his beast-like form, but that spell was broken now. By her. Right now, in his handsome human guise, the only danger he offered was if he triggered a swooning fit for the ladies.
‘Wait.’ She stepped out from Charles’ shadow, keeping a hand on his stiffened arm. ‘What do you mean, ‘portal to another life’?’
‘Exactly what you wished for, my dear, a life that continues, beyond the doorway.’ The stranger punctuated his statement with a flourish of his cloak.
‘But -’ Charlemagne began.
‘Yes.’ She said.
‘Rosa, we don’t know anything about this man.’
‘We know everything about the doorway,’ she clasped his hands fervently, hoping to get his agreement. ‘And I don’t want to go through that ever again. I want to remember you. I want to see what comes after this. I want the real happily ever after.’
‘What is the price of our wish?’ Charlemagne, unconvinced, glared at the stranger. ‘And who are you?’
‘You may call me The Ringmaster.’ He clapped his hands, and a new doorway appeared beside him, the air beyond it dusted with constellations similar to the ones on his cloak. ‘There is no cost, for this wish. But if you ever want a second wish, a price will be extracted.’
‘What is on the other side?’ Charles, ever the planner, was uncertain.
‘The real world, of course. Where people live and die full lives, unlike the immortality you enjoy nestled among the pages. That is the price of your transition.’
‘Rosa - are you sure?’
She eyed the door, felt the pull of the beckoning stars beyond. She took a final look at the nothingness around her, at the world that had disappeared a thousand times, the world that forced her to relive a plot which allowed for no deviation, no future.
‘I’m sure.’ She took his hand, and stepped through.
‘... and the marriage was celebrated the very next day with the utmost splendour, and Beauty and the Prince lived happily ever after.’
She finished the last line of their tale, gazing into his clear gold irises. He got up from his crouch, shook his magnificent mane once, then leapt gracefully down from the high stool. Within a few steps, he was at her side. There, he sank to the ground, head bowed, allowing her to climb atop his broad, muscular back.
Applause shattered the silence.
She rode him without a saddle, feeling the rippling of muscles beneath his skin as her legs tightened and relaxed, her hands pulling cruelly upon his mane to direct him as she willed. He allowed her the audacity to do as she wished, for it was the only time she ever allowe
d him to touch her at all.
She sat, back straight, gaze steady. Her fingers grazed his thick fur, and she found her thumb stroking the soft down at the nape of his neck. He arched his back, emitted a soft growl akin to a purr. That woke her up. She steeled her heart, did a final loop around the stage before separating herself from him in a graceful leap.
She walked to the ring, pushed it to the centre of the stage, touched a burning torch to it. Flames sprang up, hot and hungry, spreading rapidly to engulf the circumference of the ring with their dangerous orange glow.
Charles took his position, starting to run even as she drew out the infinity sign in the air with her right hand, leaping through the fiery ring with not a lick of fire on his fur.
The audience cheered.
She gestured for him to repeat his jump. He did so, several times, only stopping when the flames burnt out.
Rosalie wound her way along the deserted path, passing tent after tent of midnight blue outlined in broad strokes of silver. It was near midnight, and the Carnival had begun winding down. Lights began to flicker out one by one, restoring the brightly illuminated fairgrounds to a darker, quieter gloom. Rapunzel, looking out from her window at the Carnival’s northern end, had started keeping her hair, pulling her blonde braid laboriously up the three floors of her tower, singing a wistful tune while she was at it. It wouldn’t be long till she was at Jack’s Pub, downing the pints with Jill and Red Riding Hood.
To her left, Mother Schlau was sweeping the porch of her candied shop house, finally free from the press of wide-eyed customers and hungry hands. She stopped when Rosalie passed, offering her a lemon drop fresh plucked from her windowsill. Rosalie took it, thanked Mother Schlau, went on her way. The animals had started trotting about the grounds, free from the scrutiny of visitors. She saw the three little pigs locking the gates of the petting zoo they managed, setting free mice, birds, ducklings and swans from their enclosures. Come morning, these creatures would return to their various stations, ready for yet another day of manhandling by over-enthusiastic children. Now, they fled their pens in a riot of squeaks and squawks, eager to stretch their limbs and wings. It still amazed her, the number of creatures The Ringmaster had collected, all living together in this haphazard arrangement of tents and trailers, only a barren field away from civilization.
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