The women, on the other hand, adored him. All the women.
Pahula flirted with him coquettishly, actually going so far as to flutter a paper fan in a manner she must have thought enticing. The female dancers preened within his field of vision, and giggled like little girls when he noticed them.
But of course, all the women stood aside when Conchinara was around. Without saying so much as a single word, she had claimed D’Arbignal as her own and not one of them wanted to cross her.
Meanwhile, the Cyclops died a little each time she saw him surrounded by admiring women. She longed so much to be near him that she felt it as a physical pain in her heart. Yet how could she when such beauty surrounded him all the time? He had his choice of a dozen women, all much prettier than she. What chance did she have?
Now he was telling the story of his adventure with the elephant to a crowd of admirers. His practiced voice was mesmerizing, and he gestured and pantomimed with great skill. His audience was rapt.
Her heart pounded when she thought about the incident, and how close she had been to being trampled, save only for Marco’s timely rescue. And then D’Arbignal’s magnificent heroics!
She clutched her hand to her chest. The feeling in her was so large; it amazed her that she could conceal it without anybody noticing.
Of course, it had been Marco who had saved her. D’Arbignal had only come by afterwards, but somehow it almost felt as though it were D’Arbignal who had saved her from near death. It was nonsense of course, but it felt true to her heart.
“… and once I had come alongside the beast,” D’Arbignal was saying, “I secured the other end of the rope to the saddle on my steed. I leaned forward and instructed my horse to ride straight and true, and then I began to inch my way along the rope toward the lassoed elephant.”
The Cyclops blinked. When had that happened?
“I shouted to the elephant the words B’raen meeloh aka, which are powerful Elvish words of command. I could see the elephant struggling against those words, trying to overpower them, but it was to no avail; he was caught, ensnared by the magic of the Eternals!”
The Cyclops continued to stare wide-eyed as D’Arbignal recounted even more astonishing details. Was he even describing the same event she had seen? How many elephants had he ridden?
Pahula had stepped away from the crowd and eased her way over to the Cyclops. Her smile was wry.
“He’s a good-looking man,” Pahula said, eyeing D’Arbignal. She mimed tracing his body with her hands. “Very … how you say, gorgeous. But he’s not so very good with the truth. He’s good with the—not lies, what’s the word?—ah, yes, with the exaggerations. I wonder how much we should trust him.”
The Cyclops stared at Pahula open-mouthed. After a moment, the Tattooed Lady took her hand, her eyes narrowing in sympathy. For a moment, the Cyclops feared Pahula had figured out how she felt about D’Arbignal.
But then Pahula said, “Dearest, you looke terrorfied. This story, it reminds you of what happened, yes?” She pulled the Cyclops into her enormous bosom for a nearly suffocating hug. “The elephant, it did not come really that close to us. We had plenty of moments to escape, even if Marcoo had not come.”
She kissed the Cyclops’s forehead with motherly tenderness.
“You do not need for fear. We keep you safe, dear. We never let anything hurt you.”
The Cyclops’s smile was wan, and she glanced past Pahula at D’Arbignal as he bounded about, telling his tale. Her friend meant what she said, no doubt, but she was too late: the Cyclops had already been hurt, and the wound showed no sign of healing.
Chapter 13
D’Arbignal was already performing as an acrobat by the time the Venucha Players were ready to move on to another town. He had an affinity to acrobatics, blending an uncanny agility with a nearly supernatural ability to gauge distances.
The Cyclops watched him whenever she could, which wasn’t often. She heard the oohs and ahhs of the crowd while she pranced about coquettishly in the Freak Show. It required every ounce of will to keep her mind on her performance, because all she wanted was to be in that big tent, watching D’Arbignal perform. His flips and turns, often while juggling several razor-sharp axes, drew more gasps and ovations than any other act. Each time the applause rang out, it brought a bittersweet smile to her face; it pleased her that he was successful, but the more success he found, the more unapproachable he became.
Even more surprising, a genuine friendship formed between D'Arbignal and Alfredo that was born out of common loves for weaponry and good-natured competition. Often, they would continue their private sparring once the marks had gone home. On such nights, their mastery was dazzling to behold as each sought to win through speed, agility, or daring.
The sessions would sometimes last a few minutes, while at other times they might last hours. But each time, D’Arbignal made the same mistake, squaring his body to Alfredo. Whenever D’Arbignal made that error, Alfredo pounced and the match inevitably ended.
D’Arbignal tried to remain good-natured about these losses, but his frustration was evident in the way he would clench his jaw and rub the back of his neck.
For his part, Alfredo was a kind winner and never gloated. He always praised D’Arbignal for his skills. Few had come as close as D’Arbignal had to beating Alfredo, and there was no shame in losing to a better fencer. And, Alfredo pointed out, there was always a better fencer somewhere in the world.
After the run in Venucha had ended and the haulmen were packing away the gear, the Cyclops managed to slip away from the circus and visit town. She wore a heavy, black veil to disguise her hideousness. While some of the townsfolk looked at her with mild curiosity, none of them seemed to recognize her.
She found a shop that sold perfumes, and, her hands trembling from her daring, she purchased a small vial of perfume with notes of lemon and orange. Though the perfume was comparatively inexpensive, the Cyclops earned very little money. Yet what else did she have to spend it on?
Nothing could make D’Arbignal love someone as hideous as herself, but if she could make it more tolerable for him to be around her, the expense would be worth every copper coin.
Alas, the real problem, noted the Cyclops with sad irony, was one of eyes. Conchinara never took her eyes off D’Arbignal. In turn, D’Arbignal and Alfredo watched Conchinara’s sensuous dances with slack-jawed fascination. As usual, no one had eyes for the Cyclops.
Every night after Pahula had fallen asleep, the Cyclops finally went to her lonely bed. Her heart felt a mad desire, yet her soul felt empty deep inside. An unquenchable thirst in her loins refused to be denied. Every night, she cried silently into her tattered pillow as much with her one good eye as most women could with two.
Chapter 14
The Prince and his wife were lost in an enchanted forest, having been tricked there by a mischievous nymph. Oddly-colored lights flickered in the distance, and the cries of strange beasts filled the woods. The Prince held a brilliant white lantern aloft to guide them through the treacherous paths.
The Prince was a strong man, in the prime of his manhood. A thick, curled mustache bristled past his chin, and a powerful olive-colored hand rested on the hilt of his rapier, its sheath bedecked in dazzling jewels.
His wife was a ravishing beauty, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and she wore a diaphanous white gown, inadequate for the freezing forest night. She crossed her arms against her chest as she danced, her skirts flaring in ghostly wisps.
The Prince’s dance took him in an orbit around his wife, his eyes ever watchful for any danger his white lantern might reveal.
Strange shapes moved in the darkness, just out of sight. The Prince drew his blade.
A hush fell over the audience as it drew a collective breath.
The Prince brandished his rapier at the shapes, which receded and vanished.
Then up ahead, they saw a glimpse of sunlight. The Prince pointed toward the light, and then embraced his wife. Delighted, she twirled
around in front of him, gossamer filaments trailing her arms.
A dark figure leapt from behind a tree and grabbed the Prince’s wife around her waist.
Women in the audience shrieked, while some of the men giggled nervously.
Now the audience could see that the dark figure was dressed as a bandit. A black mask was around his eyes, and he wore a solid black shirt and breeches. A sheathed rapier hung from his belt. The audience booed and hissed at him.
The Prince’s wife struggled against the villain, but he was too strong. The villain in black grabbed her wrist, spun her around while he leaned back and laughed.
The Prince leapt forward, pointing at his wife. He gestured in no uncertain terms that the bandit was to release her immediately, or face his wrath. To emphasize his ultimatum, the Prince pointed his rapier at the villain’s heart.
The bandit laughed again, and shoved the Prince’s wife away. She spun, her arms at full extension, until she collapsed, sobbing, at the base of a tree.
The crowd hissed again. How dare he hurt the beautiful Princess!
The bandit boasted now: a wide sweep of his arm indicated that these were his woods, and he owned everything therein … including the Prince’s wife.
Once more, the Prince demanded that the bandit release his wife. Again, the bandit laughed. Now he, too, drew his orange-hued rapier. With a deft sweep of his arm, his rapier whistled through the air. Drawing an invisible line, he challenged the Prince to cross. Huddled against the tree, the Prince’s wife reached out toward her husband in a desperate entreaty.
The Prince squared his shoulders. His head raised nobly as he strode forward to stand before the bandit. He bowed, and began a salute—
The treacherous bandit launched his attack while the Prince was in mid-salute. The Prince retreated a step barely in time, and the bandit’s blade cut a thin strip out of the Prince’s shirt, revealing a red line of blood.
The audience collectively gasped. One man actually yelled at the bandit in outrage.
Astonished at the bandit’s cowardice, the Prince made a point of deliberately finishing his salute before closing the distance with his foe. Voices from the audience cheered him on, and the Prince’s wife encouraged them with gestures to cheer louder.
The men clashed in a dazzling conflagration of metal. Their rapiers whirled and clinked against each other as each man sought a clear path to the other’s heart. The bandit fought with brash abandon. He leaped and spun through the air, then abruptly changed course, lunging at the Prince from surprising angles. For his part, the Prince showed no fear. No matter how cunning the bandit became, the Prince always answered with a skillful parry and riposte.
The bandit began to tire, and his attacks became increasingly desperate. In contrast, the Prince grew ever more confident, and the true virtuosity of his skill began to shine. Now it was his turn to draw blood, slicing a red strip along the bandit’s bicep to the roaring approval of the audience.
The bandit howled in rage. He wagged his rapier at the audience, ordering them to be quiet. However, instead of falling silent, the audience cheered even louder for the Prince and booed even louder at the bandit.
The bandit cursed the audience. Enraged, he launched a series of breathtaking thrusts and cuts at the Prince.
But the Prince, while pressed a bit, was more than the bandit’s equal. He parried, parried, parried, and then suddenly, his blade sprang forward. The Prince twisted his wrist, and the bandit’s sword flew from his hand, leaving him unarmed.
The audience cheered as the bandit dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with fear. He brought his hands together in a pose of supplication, begging the Prince to spare his life. For his part, the Prince was filled with righteous rage and was inclined to slay the bandit. However, his wife, overflowing with love and promising a sensual reward for later, entreated her husband to spare the foolish bandit. The Prince reluctantly consented, gesturing to the bandit to flee back deep into the forest and never show his face again.
The bandit bowed his head and started to slink off past the lovers while they embraced. But then an evil gleam shone in the bandit’s eyes, and he grinned an evil grin. He stooped to his boot, withdrawing a shiny, thin stiletto, then tiptoed toward the lovers.
The audience shouted warnings, but the couple was so in love that they were deaf to anything other than their hearts. The bandit’s grin broadened as he drew back his stiletto to stab the Prince’s wife in the back.
At the last moment, the Prince spotted the bandit’s treachery. He shoved his wife as hard as he could. She sailed across the forest, rolled backward twice, and sprang to her feet with her arms spread in terror.
The bandit’s knife cut through empty air. Outraged, he raised it above his head and ran at the Prince. The Prince had no choice but to run him through. A woman in the audience cried out, a man laughed, and tumultuous applause filled the forest.
The bandit dropped to his knees, stunned at how quickly death had found him. He started to raise a defiant fist at the audience, but he never made it. He collapsed to the ground and was still.
The lovers embraced once more. Now it was clear that the patch of sunlight they had seen earlier illuminated a road. They had found their way out!
The Prince and his wife shared a passionate kiss, and the forest was filled with the cheers and applause from the audience.
The lights were extinguished, and the forest went dark.
* * *
The torchbearers filed past the Cyclops into the tent, where they surrounded the forest set.
D’Arbignal stopped being dead and stood to receive the audience’s applause with a humble bow. Then he gestured to Conchinara, who twirled enticingly in front of the audience before dipping into an elegant curtsey. With a dainty hand, she indicated her husband, who took a handful of steps toward the audience, saluted them with his rapier, and bowed.
The cheers and applause continued, so Alfredo bowed a second time, and then a third. He took a fourth and final bow, and then he led D’Arbignal and Conchinara out of the tent and past the Cyclops.
The Cyclops held her hand to her chest, her heart pounding in excitement. What a magnificent act! The romance, the bravery, the beauty of the fencing: it was almost too much for her. But of course, D’Arbignal had been the real star. Alfredo was handsome enough, but he lacked D’Arbignal’s presence and charisma.
The Cyclops felt her heart pounding beneath her palm. Pounding, pounding, pounding for D’Arbignal.
Chapter 15
The Cyclops waited until well after midnight before she slipped from her tent. She was getting better at moving silently due to all her recent practice. The circus grounds were still as death at this hour, with only a few sleepy dogs chained to stakes to keep watch. The new moon’s light was too feeble to cast so much as a shadow, and it was difficult to see.
She experienced a certain liberation, a feeling of power, walking the grounds while everyone else slept. Yet even though she felt that odd sense of power, the excursion also exacerbated her loneliness. She wondered what it would feel like to be the only woman left in the world, without even the horror and contempt of others to keep her company.
She heard Alfredo’s snores as she passed the tent he shared with his wife, dispelling the melancholy illusion. No, she wasn’t the only living being in the world. It just felt like that sometime.
It had taken the Master Fencer and his wife less than an hour to settle down after their latest shouting match. With practice came efficiency.
The argument had been the usual. She felt cheated being forced to live a circus life with Alfredo; he was convinced (not unjustly) that she had had numerous dalliances with other men in the circus. A few shouts and accusations, a slap and a shove or two, and then the tears. Minutes later, the apologies, the kisses, and the lovemaking.
The Cyclops envied their relationship, even their fights. To have someone who argued with you meant that he cared enough about your opinion to disagree. The Cyclops knew
that she was largely irrelevant, not worth more than a snort of contempt or an absent-minded shove out of the way.
She slowed her pace as she neared D’Arbignal’s tent. Unlike Alfredo, D’Arbignal did not snore, which made it very hard to determine when he had fallen asleep. The first time she had made this excursion, the Cyclops had spent the better part of an hour just approaching his tent. She had been in mortal terror that she would be discovered at any moment. By now, though, she had been here a handful of times and recognized all the various nighttime sounds he made.
Once again, she wondered why she couldn't stop herself from doing this. She knew she wasn't worthy of D'Arbignal; she wasn't worthy of anyone at all. But for whatever reason, she just couldn't stay away from him no matter how hard she tried.
The need to see him, to be near him, kept her up until dawn. After many sleepless nights, she'd learned that it was just better for her to succumb to the urge. Afterward, she would sleep soundly for the rest of the night. Even Pahula had commented on how better rested the Cyclops had seemed of late.
D’Arbignal’s breathing was calm and steady. Sometimes, he suffered from terrible nightmares, but not tonight. Every few minutes, he turned over, adjusting his position without moving the covers at all.
The Cyclops savored his presence like a fine wine. It soothed her loneliness like a drug, just a little; it scratched that unreachable itch at the back of her soul. Alas, the effectiveness lessened with each visit. Each time she returned to her own tent, she felt less sated than the last.
This time, she realized, she would actually enter his tent! The thought made her heart pound. Yes, she would creep just inside the flaps of the entrance to his tent, no further. She’d see his sleeping form close up and imagine that she lay next to him, pressed against his back, smelling his masculinity …
The image was too inviting. She couldn’t resist it.
But she’d be caught!
A Lesson for the Cyclops Page 4