by Jeff Kamen
After what felt like a few brief seconds, on hearing his cue, he too was running out from the screens, amazed at himself, seeing the entire hall in glimpses, his skin warming in the glow.
He took Tilde’s outstretched hand and spun her around him, following on with twirls of his own. The applause did not diminish at all, simply continued as it had started, the audience appearing keen to show their appreciation of each writhing turn, each flourish of their arms, each pout and snarl he and Tilde used to express the music’s flow. It was then that he noticed Paget, playing jerkily in the shadowy space between the audience and the fireplace. With a darting leer Paget seemed to be giving them encouragement, and duly inspired, he found himself dancing with all parts of him united, blood and soul and bone.
On exchanging a fleeting nod with Tilde, they crisscrossed the floor together, he managing to leap alongside her exactly as they’d done in rehearsals, executing his dips and flourishes with great timing and verve, so that when eventually they left the performance area, their hands clasped and raised on high, he felt himself swelling with emotion, the more so when he heard the huge applause echoing behind them.
Round the back, they tore off their wigs and were handed tumblers of water, which they sipped at, panting, before changing costumes. Leaning across the dressing table, he congratulated Tilde on her work, his voice dropping to a whisper as the applause died away; and then he faltered. For the eyes she raised to his were filled with a dark and liquid void. He noticed something black on her tongue which had not been there before. ‘Tillie?’ he said, taking her by the wrist, but she failed to respond. ‘Tillie, what is it?’ he gasped, but Kol interceded with a hiss and told him to keep quiet. Shaking his head, telling himself it was just nerves, nerves getting to them all, he undressed and pulled on his next outfit; with it a long white hairpiece. ‘Think it’ll stay in place?’ he whispered, thinking at least to make Tilde smile, break the tension somehow, but with her looking away and Kol frowning across at him, he let it go and sat drinking water.
During the interlude there was a subtle murmur of voices in the chamber, soon to be silenced by the trillings of Paget’s flute. Once more he rose from his stretches, sick with anticipation. He followed the music closely until it drifted into the main theme of the second piece, and as the melody lifted he took Tilde by the hand and squeezed it, and this time led her out.
During this movement, hurling himself athletically around, twisting as he landed, there was one figure in particular which caught his eye as he scanned the audience. A figure seated on the back row. One with a different presence to the others, as though possessed of greater authority. Huge and imposing in its voluminous dark drapes, its face concealed. He watched it lean back in its dark leather chair, watched as long as he dared, then turned and sprang on his way.
Before the second piece was concluded, he managed to exchange a look with Paget, who, as he shivered the tambourine, slid his eyes in the direction of the concealed door, as if to confirm that some kind of activity was afoot. He replied to Paget with a nod, then left the performance area with the applause once more resounding.
He sat down, panting quietly, and watched Tilde sit too. This time when he spoke to her, she was more like her usual self. A faint light shone in her eyes and she whispered something that spoke of a faith stronger and deeper than he thought possible. In spite of himself, he whispered back, ‘The house, Tillie, we’re all meeting at the house. Forget whatever Paget told you. If you need me, just head back there.’ But before she could answer, Kol and a handful of servants came between them to help with the costume change — a change which, even though the dance appeared to be going as well as he could have hoped for, he realised could not be taken lightly — and turning from her, he focussed on it with all his will.
As his pale and feathery costume was fitted, he stood at the mirror with his arms outstretched, gazing at himself with rising confidence. The poetry of the moment seemed perfect to him: right at the point of exchanges, perhaps in the middle of battles within the house, he and Tilde were to be transformed into celestial swans in flight. The servants buttoned him up the back, then using a blob of grease, they combed back his faded curls. His face was painted gold, his lips and cheeks and eyes outlined in white. He wiped his hands clean. In the background the flute trilled eerily over a low hubbub of noise. He thought he heard a metallic scraping once or twice, but the music continued without interruption.
‘Hear what I said, Tillie?’ he whispered, turning to find her facing the mirror with a wistful expression. He watched her fondly, thinking that she had come to appreciate her own beauty at last. There were long braids clipped to her hair, with tiny bells on the end that clinked glassily as she moved her head; she shook it a little, the bells clinking as she took something from the table and swallowed it back with water. ‘Tillie,’ he whispered, ‘did you hear what I said?’ and she looked at him a moment, smiling thinly, and then with a swish of her costume she rose up and glided away into the firelight, her hands exotically poised to match the music’s intention as Paget’s trillings altered mood and key.
‘I’m off,’ Kol muttered, indicating the outer hall.
‘Good luck,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll see you outside. And Kol, I, ah ... if you see him, you know, before I do, just keep him there. Don’t let him come looking. Because he will. He’s that sort.’
With an empty expression, Kol nodded, then made his way along the wall and into the dark.
Leaving him alone. Leaving him to contemplate the hurtling moment of truth. At that very instant, beyond a few thin walls, his father was being freed, dragged away by friends he’d had no idea were coming ...
‘Shit,’ he murmured, looking past the screens, then a moment later he ran out as Tilde had done.
She was turning, turning, snaking her arms. He saw Paget’s shape jerking in the background. The audience was dim in the flickers. On joining her, sweating through the paint, unsteady with nerves, he swept up his hands to match her movements and together they posed as branches flourishing on the same slender tree, swaying, shooting out their fingers like twigs, each finely attuned to the other’s timing. Then they span apart. Stroke by stroke they wove their way back towards each other and chased each other round, each leaping, eyes closed, to fill the space the other had left behind. He understood in that moment that worlds as well as people had been created in this way, and in his mind he was like some twisting angel conducting the forces required to bring his father home, forces mightier than an earthquake or hurricane. Tilde’s layered gown whipped and ruffled before him and he pursued her with a deep and ardent grace, his mind glowing in wonder at the solemn mystery and beauty of life, and all it held in its grasp.
They danced strongly and in perfect accord, Paget indicating with his demeanour that the applause they were receiving was highly merited. A few times he tried to read what else was in Paget’s look, but perhaps from fear of their discovery, Paget kept it concealed.
They began the final movement by striking crooked and marvellous poses with each step they took forward from the fireplace. Paget once again put the flute to his lips, embarking upon a melody of twining paths and sultry warmth and light that soon grew wilder, brisker, even dangerous.
Moth leapt again and again, landing with a searching flourish of hands as Tilde leapt away in turn, both dancing as though possessed. Like the true and faithful lover he represented, he followed her lead, twirling into the furious and abstract territories that lay before them as their bodies conveyed the intricate story of the Aeon’s evolution. On they went, Paget alternating instruments as the ceremony demanded it, trilling feverishly, ducking his head, stamping in time, and they danced faster still. He saw it all in a blur of wondrous frames, hearing fresh outbreaks of applause, layers of it overlapping, filled with strength and heartfelt enthusiasm, and he knew that they were nearing something, and when he glanced across at Paget he was thumping away, and when he looked back, Tilde was performing a tight pirouette.
As if she had come to a point of finality; as if she was going to take flight from him or run into his arms and stay.
He struck a beckoning pose, inviting her once and for all time to decide, to bring things to an end, and she ran at him and span around like a top out of control. He gasped with undying gratitude, catching her, keeping hold. She could not leave him. Their love was forever. The Aeon could begin, while somewhere within the grounds a bruised and bearded figure was being escorted away. After a long and whirling embrace, they fell to their knees with their arms wrapped tightly around each other; and then, with chins touching, they looked up.
The audience rose to its feet, the applause rising to a storm. It went on and on until eventually Paget shivered the tambourine again, and at last the clapping fell away. Before long, complete silence had fallen in the chamber.
The only sound was that of the flames at their backs. They held their positions. Moth glanced across at Paget just as he struck a beat.
BAM ...
BAM-BAM ...
He turned his head. Tilde turned hers.
They went through their last moves stroke by stroke.
BAM-BAM ...
Swivelling. Leaning to the floor.
BAM ...
BAM-BAM ...
Moving in rapture, in servitude.
BAM ...
Noticing people turning aside, he tried to look behind him, and then he stopped himself, frightened of spoiling things, of drawing attention to himself. He glanced at Paget again, remembering his warning not to give anything away, and in the full glow of the fire, Paget smiled.
BAM-BAM ...
On hearing another iron scrape, he turned very slightly to find what appeared to be the wrapped structure from the cart being pushed into the firelight. It was being moved from the corner that Paget had said was his escape route. The first pangs of confusion went through him as he saw from the way the bars were pressed against the folds that, unmistakeably, the Cage was inside the hall.
He almost spoke aloud, almost cried out to know why it was there. Surely, with himself and Tilde so exposed, it would kill them all ... surely, he thought ... surely it wasn’t to be used right then — and then the drapes were dragged from it, revealing behind the bars a small huddled shape. Someone in a crouched position, cloaked from head to foot. Staring, he noticed Kol coming before the door, there to take up a cord attached to the figure’s neck. As he pulled at it, the small figure stirred and rose upright, still fully covered over. Kol then opened the door and led the figure out, using the cord as he might a leash.
Moth glanced at Tilde, wanting to see if she too appeared surprised, disconcerted in any way, but she was staring blankly at the floor. He looked down too, swallowing uneasily, then as the tambourine beats continued, he looked across in astonishment to find the draped figure being slowly led into the firelight. He couldn’t understand what Kol was playing at. Couldn’t understand why Paget wasn’t doing something about it, reacting differently.
Why, he thought, was he carrying on as if the plan was still in progress? What was going on? Had something bad happened, something he and Kol were distracting the audience from? By doing what? Leading a servant around? And how on earth, he wondered — how on earth could the staff know what to do with no one to direct them? And where was his father? Outside? Already in the courtyard? Waiting in the carriage? Or had the carriage already gone? Was this a last minute ploy? Was he supposed to run? Why was no one signalling? His father, his father. Who was looking after him?
He glared furiously at Kol, tried to push him into action with his eyes, but Kol appeared not to notice, and did no more than gaze ahead as he led the small figure on. Just then, Paget whacked the tambourine and began a recitation, and as he did, Moth heard a noise he hadn’t expected to hear. A cold metal noise like hooves on cobblestones. The figure was stomping its feet.
Clop clip.
‘… and in hurt and grief and tearing,’ Paget intoned, raising the tambourine, ‘we come to the glorious matter of your Return.’
BAM ...
These were murmurs at this. The audience members began nodding or bowing where they sat.
BAM-BAM …
‘... beginning this night with the assimilation of two as yet unreturned servants. Whose bartered souls have for many moons evaded you, in spite of what was owed ...’
From his kneeling position he tried to see the figure more clearly, terrified he’d misunderstood something — an order, something in the timings he’d overlooked — and then on realising how delicately poised events stood, he saw that he had to keep still. It was that or ruin everything with his eagerness, his fear, his callow lack of patience.
BAM-BAM ...
He noticed that the head beneath the cloth was oddly shaped.
Clop clip.
The small figure moved hesitantly, pulling on the leash. Then Kol released it, let it go. The figure tottered away from the fire and Moth saw it turn towards himself and Tilde. They were the only things between it and the audience.
Clop clip.
Then he gasped. Someone had gripped his hand. Both hands. A group of servants had appeared, some surrounding him, and some her. When he turned, he saw them sliding across the floor what appeared to be a pair of round bench-like devices with curved raised parts like humps, broad enough to lie across. Dimly, he thought the bases must have had been fitted with velvet pads, for there was no sound at all as one of the benches was slid beneath him, the servants making him lie facedown over it, with his buttocks raised towards the fire. The servants seized his ankles, began pulling them apart. He watched his wrists being tied to brass rings along the sides, and then his ankles were bound as well. Tilde was being bound in a similar fashion on the other bench, which stood adjacent to his own.
‘The path has been long, but may this timely offering shorten it. Hear us call to you, Fairest and Brightest, hear us call to you whose Age shall bring new ways, new fires, new advancements to expand what is known. Yush, how we miss you. How we long for you. How each day the Enemy comes to us in wearying forms. Oh, how it hides itself, how we are forced to recognise it through the weakness of its words, its impoverished actions ...’
Rags were stuffed into his mouth, dusty and dry. Bewildered, he tried to spit them out, but his mouth was jammed full and he was forced to lie snorting through his nostrils.
Clip clop.
‘ ... to spy it arriving by air or road, like that drear sun’s deceitfulness upon the waking day.’
Clop.
He snorted louder, struggling, trying to force a response, but the servants refused to communicate, their faces remaining inscrutable. He turned to Tilde to see how she was reacting, and found her staring at her wrists, at the bindings there; as if she had other matters to consider, or had known all along what was to happen and now had time to contemplate the experience. His thoughts darkened in fear, but there was nothing he could do but writhe from side to side as the draped figure tottered closer.
‘Lord of Fires,’ Paget continued, ‘in honour of you, and in honour of your brightest kingdoms, let our waiting end as all things must end. Let this debt, like all debts incurred on your pathway, now be collected, and collected well ...’
Clip clop.
‘Let us gather in watchfulness, then ...’
Clip.
‘... joined as we ever are, joined on that road lit in the princely way of your going ...’
Clip clop.
‘... joined in this offering made to you in awe and song ...’
It was then that Tilde turned to him. Sorry, she seemed to mouth, and behind the dripping paint, her features grew ashen. She sank a little.
‘Pray come to us. Come up. Claw nearer. Arise from the abyss, that we may no longer fight here alone ...’
Clop clip.
Clop.
He struggled again, trying to drag his wrists through the bindings. Then, in spite of the cold glitter in the servants’ eyes, he managed to stop himself. He could feel something harmful, even malevolent, in their look, and yet everything he’d been taught by Paget informed him that he was merely being tested, and that all he had to do was submit as Tilde was doing. He had to trust what was happening, even now. Especially now. Now more than ever.
The small draped figure had by this time come up behind him. He saw its shadow on the floor. Struggling to see what else was going on, he noticed that Paget had moved from his earlier position. He was about to search for him when he appeared to one side, the tambourine raised on high. There was a look of disquiet and trepidation in those weathered features he’d never seen before, a look of intense, unstoppable excitement.
Then a thought came to him, harrowing and strange. Were they using a disguise to help smuggle his father out? Was that the point of it? Was that him there — under the cloak? And if so, was he to lie still and wait for his father to carry him away? Could that be it? Could it?
His sight misted. Surely not, surely the figure was too small, too hunched-looking ...
He struggled harder, lost in deep storms of confusion, and then he strained himself around and saw Kol tug the cloth away.