© 2017 by Alastair Fontaine
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Miguel Bruecker, Dice
Portfolio: dicevisuals.com
An
Immortal Dance
Alastair Fontaine
animmortaldance.webs.com
“Off with you! You're a happy fellow, for you'll give happiness and joy to many other people. There is nothing better or greater than that!”
-Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
German Composer
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
- Dante Alighieri, Italy. From “The Divine Comedy”
Prologue
He lay on a soft bed of sand. Eyes that had not opened in decades slowly welcomed the golden sunrise. The sweet warmth of those first rays planted tender kisses on his face, slowly melting away a terrible cold. At first, they blinded him, searing him with their intensity. He closed his eyes again as his ears awoke. Sounds that he had not heard in decades combined into a sweet melody. The gentle sound of tiny waves rolling into a beach. The high pitched song of birds far above him. The foliage behind him, made into an orchestra by a pleasant breeze. His eyelids opened again, more carefully. Slowly, a blue sky came to life. The crooners that completed the auditory ensemble around him were grey spots far above him. Even higher, white clouds lazily cruised in shapes that only he could see. He had experienced all of those things before, somewhere. He could not say where. Just that they felt so familiar, like old friends. It did not matter. In his unknown paradise he felt at peace. He smiled, the sensation feeling new to him somehow. What was his name? He did not know. Where did he come from? Again, no answer. He lay in the sand for a while. None of it mattered. There was nowhere to go and no one to be.
Then, he remembered.
He remembered fear and anger. He remembered charcoal eyes, lost, confused and filled with rage. He remembered shouted words and pain, so much pain. Why had he felt like that? What had happened to him? He did not want to know. He tried to return to his paradise. He could not. It had been shattered forever in that passing moment of consciousness. That precious peace had been ruined and now he felt a cold chill in the centre of his being. He forced himself up. Slowly at first, muscles aching from years of disuse, his spirit fighting for every inch, he crawled to his knees. Straining against the pain, he put one shaking foot on the ground and pushed up. Cracked lips opened into a grunt. Quiet at first, but louder as his voice awakened with the rest of his body. Another great effort and he was standing upright. He had forgotten the symphony that had awoken him. It was gone, replaced by an ugly jumble of disparate sounds. He looked at himself, he was naked. He felt the bite of the Northern wind. Its icy talons tore into his flesh. He wondered where he was and why he was there. His legs were beginning to buckle under a weight they had not held in an eternity. He looked desperately for something to hold on to. Anything. There was nothing. There was no one.
He looked behind him. As far as he could see, there was a dark wilderness. He remembered formidable trees like those that stood before him. Almost like home. Where was home? It all seemed so long ago. Too far away for his memory to reach. It all felt so familiar, yet he could not see why. So he screamed. It was not a human sound. It was more like the desperate cry of a wounded beast. Yet it was wholly human in ways that he could not have understood then. It was a primal sound, long forgotten, born in the savage cradle of mankind, in distant jungles during a time when man still roamed naked through a vast and lonely wilderness. Then, the peace returned and there was nothing.
Sigue tu corazón, pero escucha intenso y oirás el latido de tus compañeros
De última, vos y yo somos uno sólo
Ama, juega, vive, brilla, que el dolor no te haga olvidar
que debajo de cada piedra, en cada mariposa hay belleza, hay vida, hay
-Anon, Argentina
1
He knew that his name was Ambrose d’Artois. He was the son of Richard and Mercy d’Artois. Richard was a successful businessman and Mercy was a corporate lawyer. They used to live in New York. Then, an accident took his memory. In the hope that living in a small town for a while would help Ambrose’s recovery, the family had retreated to Hastings, Virginia. So far, the move had not achieved the desired effect. Ambrose still had no recollection of the kid with the silly smile and braces in the family photographs scattered around his house. He did not remember trips around the world. He did not remember New York. He wasn’t too bothered though. Clearly he had been a happy child.
What did matter was that it was Sunday and he had an essay to write for world history class the following day. He really didn’t feel like it. All he wanted to do was crawl back in bed. He wanted to dream again. He never quite managed to remember his dreams. He only remembered how real they felt, the joy, the hope, the loss, the emotion that he felt in that space beyond his consciousness. It felt more real than his waking life
Mercy d’Artois walked into his room. She was a slender woman, in her middle age. Her hair was a vibrant brown and perfectly done up, kept that way by a dedicated stylist. Her makeup accentuated her fine features, but it was not excessive by any measure. She had warm, hazel eyes that complemented the blue and white Mediterranean dress that she was wearing. She moved gracefully in her black Prada heels and her voice was gentle, sophisticated. She asked Ambrose about his progress on that essay.
He lied with a smile, “It’s going great Mother! I think this time I’m definitely going for an A.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I love you!” she beamed.
She left a glass of cool lemonade on his desk and walked away, singing a melody to herself, almost gliding through the polished cedar hall as she went. Ambrose felt a pang of guilt sipping that delicious mixture of sugar and lemon. He looked at the blank document in front of him. He had only recently learned how to use a computer again. Cell phones had been a total mystery to him for a while, but he had come to love his iPhone. It was an amazing little device. He could use it to talk to and see people miles away, save pictures that struck his fancy and play stupid little games to pass the time whenever he got bored. With the internet, he didn’t understand why people even bothered with textbooks anymore. What was the point when everything that they could ever want to know was a tap away?
He was getting distracted again. He needed to get the essay done. It should have been easy but he couldn’t make himself want to do it. Every time that he tried, he knew the words that he had to type but couldn’t quite pull toge
ther the will to do it. There was always something else to do, seemingly far more pressing. The following year, he would go to college and never have to take history again. Though when he thought about it, college would just be four more years of schoolwork leading up to a whole life of boring work. He didn’t really see why he should be excited. However, the alternative was not going to college, not getting a good job, becoming a burden to society and even worse, a stain on the d’Artois name. His parents were hell-bent on him going to college. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He really had to get his essay done.
“Explain the factors leading up to Alexander the Great’s conquest of the Persian Empire.” He knew the answer. He had gone through countless pages of academic journals. They all pointed to the same conclusions. Simply put, Alexander was a military genius with superior tactics and a well-trained, professional army. Yet something deep within him screamed that there was more to the story. He knew that it was arrogant to think that he, a mere student, knew better than scholars who had been studying the subject their entire adult lives. He couldn’t help it though. Something told him that there was so much more to that magnificent conqueror than a bunch of facts. It came from the same place as his dreams, close enough to feel real, but it didn’t give him any answers. So he started writing what he knew Mr. Josephs wanted to read. Over the next few hours, he performed his tedious chore, made worse by the knowledge that something essential was missing. He just didn’t know what.
“Dinner’s ready!” came a deep voice from downstairs. His father. He left his finished essay. Proofreading could wait until after he’d eaten. Or the following morning. Probably the latter. As he left his room and walked down the mahogany staircase to the dining room, his nostrils absorbed the delicious scent of pork cooked in honey and lime. Proofreading could definitely wait. Mercy d’Artois was a great lawyer, but if she had chosen a culinary career, there was no doubt that she would have been every bit as successful. As Ambrose walked into the dining room, he saw his father in his usual place at their ornate, polished oak table. It was far too big for three people. When the d’Artois family did not have company over, it felt very empty.
Richard d’Artois wore an elegant, emerald green sweater over a white cotton dress shirt. His golden Swiss watch was, as always, on his left wrist. Sharp, blue eyes, unsullied by age, surveyed the room as Ambrose entered. He bowed his greying head and began to pray as his small family sat around him. The words were meaningless to Ambrose, but he bowed his head and waited for him to finish anyways, out of respect. His parents were Catholics, and he supposed that he had been raised one as well. However, he couldn’t imagine he was a very good one. If he was honest, he preferred Paganism. Pagans were so much more relatable. They gave him Gods that he could understand, instead of a perfection that he would supposedly never comprehend. After all, Pagan Gods were really just powered up humans. Otherwise, they shared his same flaws and insecurities.
“Amen,” Richard finished his prayer.
Ambrose devoured the first slices of pork quickly. He barely had time to enjoy the herbs, honey and lime melding into one delicious flavour with the meat before he went on to the next bite. He tried to eat more slowly, knowing that sooner or later it would run out. The taste was incredible. It was a work of art, its ordinary components taken from the Earth and forged by a skilled hand into something extraordinary.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it Ambrose?” his father snapped him out of his reverie.
“Sorry?”
“Crimea,” he said. “You surely are aware of what Russia’s doing there?”
“Well, it’s certainly terrible, but I can’t say it’s unusual. Haven’t we done the exact same thing to other countries? For example, Texas used to be Mexican.”
“This is different. We live in the modern world now. Global affairs should be civilised. Russia has no business taking land from Ukraine!” he argued.
“So is the world supposed to be ‘civilised’ just because we Americans are stronger than everyone else? We didn’t think that way when Russia was the mighty Empire. Our fellow Americans didn’t seem to mind taking land from weaker peoples when we were just a bunch of colonies. So yes, it is terrible for the people of Crimea and Ukraine. However, it’s certainly not an anomaly,” Ambrose shot back. He loved it when they had such discussions. They made him think about the world.
“What happens if the situation escalates? What if Ukraine had been part of NATO? World War III would have started! Russia is rising again, and I don’t think they’ll stop at Crimea.”
“I don’t think World War III will happen. Russia isn’t suicidal. They knew that they could get away with taking Crimea precisely because Ukraine isn’t part of NATO. They just want to see how far they can tip the balance of power towards their country. I’m certain a compromise will be reached before any nukes are launched.”
“They can’t shake up the order that’s kept the world relatively secure since the Cold War ended!” Richard exclaimed. The outrage was becoming apparent on his reddening face.
“You mean the order that’s kept America on top?” Ambrose asked, using his most innocent tone.
“Well, son, guess what? You’re American! As far as you’re concerned, that’s the way it should be,” Richard snapped. By his tone, Ambrose knew that the discussion was over as far as his father was concerned. So he asked his mother, who had been quietly observing their debate, about her opinion.
“As far as I’m concerned, the great men of the United States, Russia and Ukraine all have an awful lot of explaining to do when they meet our maker. They like to talk about and fight over Crimea, but who accounts for the people affected by the violence? Instead of really trying to compromise, they make their fellow humans suffer because it’s more expedient. The life of a single Ukrainian, Russian or American is worth more than that old slab of land.”
Ambrose thought back to a few minutes before, when he had relegated the suffering caused by the conflict to a single word- ‘terrible’. He realised just how callous that must have sounded and he felt like he should be ashamed. Yet he could not help but to think that perhaps his mother was wrong. Was a single human life really that important? Human lives just seemed so short. A mere century if one was lucky. What did a mere century of life matter when compared to something that would last forever? He did not give voice to those thoughts. He finished his dinner and hugged his mother, thanking her for making such a delicious meal. He took leave of his father and returned to his room. He went to sleep that night thinking of his mother’s words.
***
He awakened to a text message from Finn, his only real friend in Hastings. In the world, really. His full name was Finnegan James Hawthorne, but everyone called him Finn. He had a portly frame, bright blue eyes and kept his hair in long, red locks. He enjoyed Japanese anime and the occasional sci-fi novel. Ambrose had never seen him go outside without a grey fedora. He was a peculiar guy, but his heart was good. Finn had been the first person to walk up to Ambrose and introduce himself. He had showed him around the town and patiently taught him how to use all the electronic gadgets that Ambrose had come to find invaluable.
He had texted Ambrose to find out if he would go to an event with him later that day. A girl in another school was hosting a massive masquerade ball. Her name was Courtney Rossborough, and as far as Ambrose knew, she would also be graduating that year. Finn had seen her once and he graded her a ‘solid ten out of ten’. Other than that, she was a stranger to Ambrose. Regardless, every senior in town was invited and Ambrose thought that he might actually end up going. Then again, could he really be bothered? He replied saying that he would think about it. Then, he briefly contemplated going back to sleep. His warm bed and soft pillow were so welcoming, so pleasant compared to the biting autumn wind that he knew would greet him as soon as he walked outside. Going back to sleep was a nice thought, but only a passing one. He forced himself up.
Ambrose d’Artois prepared for the new day. He enjoye
d a hot shower, cleansing his hair and body with peppermint soap. The peppermint produced a cool sensation that left his skin tingling and fresh, waking him up. He breathed in the steam, letting it cleanse him inside. He was tempted to stay in that wonderful heat for a while longer, but he knew that there was no time. He dried himself with his crimson towel, especially enjoying the delightful feeling when he rubbed his back dry. Ambrose looked at himself in the mirror. He smiled, revealing two brilliant rows of white teeth. He admired his thick, wavy, brown hair. He knew that he had a few white hairs, but it didn’t bother him. No one ever noticed them. He admired his chiselled physique, one that a large appetite and minimal exercise had not damaged. His gaze went to his strong, hairless chin, the gentle curve of his lips, his luxurious cheekbones and finally to his bright, hickory eyes. That was where his admiration turned into disappointment. Looking into those chocolate pools, he was presented with an enigma. He saw a profound sadness that he did not feel and age beyond his comprehension. They surely belonged to him, but he did not see Ambrose d’Artois in those eyes. Reluctantly, he looked away. He sprayed himself with his favourite cologne. Vanilla bean, mint oil, geranium flower, cedar wood and oak moss came together to bathe him in a scent that was at the same time exotic and gentle. Ancient and young.
That was the smell that greeted Finn an hour later, when he met with Ambrose in the minutes before first period. “Made up your mind?” he asked.
“Err... I don’t know Finn; I don’t know if parties are really my thing.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. If you don’t come willingly I’ll come to your house and pick you up anyways.”
Ambrose sighed. He knew that Finn wasn’t joking. “Fine,” he mumbled, accepting his fate.
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