Poison

by Lan Chan

  Ratface smiles at me and I return the gesture, thinking of the pleasure I will get from tossing her over. I wait until I’m within reach of the limber twigs she call arms, and then I let myself drop.

  “Catch me if you can,” I say as I fall. She snarls and beats at the pole uselessly. Halfway to the stage, I force my arms against the pull of gravity, and as the pole rotates downwards, I latch onto it with everything I’ve got. The impact is painful and knocks the breath from me, but it serves the purpose of breaking my fall.

  “Get her!” I hear Skylar scream.

  My sights are set on the half dozen aerialists who have descended the poles for fear of being thrown over like their dead counterpart. One girl, a cute strawberry-blonde who can’t be more than ten or eleven, has her arms and legs wrapped around her pole and is using the disc as a seat. When I get closer, I see she’s crying and muttering to herself. “Please, please don’t throw me overboard,” she keeps saying. “I don’t want to join the circus.” It hits me like a punch when I realise she’s referring to being thrown from a plane.

  I look up at the aerialists around me. Every one of them must have gone through the same ordeal I did. They are the survivors of their own dances with the wind. I bite my lip until I draw blood. I can’t allow myself to feel sympathy for them. They certainly don’t feel it for me. I hop poles until I’m right behind the blond girl. Then I hook my left arm around her waist. She cries even louder.

  “Let me throw you from here or be thrown from the top,” I say in her ear. Then I tug as hard as I can and thankfully she gets the message and loosens her grip, though not enough to make it seem like she’s not trying to fight me off. She might be afraid, but she’s not stupid—I’ll give her that. When I send her flying past the edge of the poles, we’re only about three metres off the ground, and she’s been in the circus long enough to know how to break her own fall.

  Two other bodies rain down from above, and the agonising screams after impact tell me whoever has fallen is still alive. I make the mistake of glancing over and almost lose my footing at the sight of a shinbone jutting through Ratface’s exposed knee.

  “Wind Dancer!” I hear someone yell. I choose to ignore it, thinking it’s just someone egging me on, when a shadow passes above me and then somebody lands on my back. Slender fingers enclose around my throat. I panic and attempt to peel the hands away. When I feel myself going dizzy, I close my eyes and force my mind to clear the way Sword Mistress Lee taught me. I remind myself I have nothing to gain by winning this game. My legs interlock around the pole.

  I let myself go limp as I lean backwards. The weight of my captor drags us both down. When he realises what’s happening, the boy lets go and attempts to gain purchase. It’s too little too late. I feel the impact of his spine on the discs through my chest. He groans and slumps and would be falling headfirst onto the metal plate, but I manage to clutch at the collar of his leotard and push him clear of the spinning arena.

  I don’t have time to make sure he’s not dead. Instead, I use the strength in my legs to lever myself upright again. My leotard is soaked through with sweat, and the heat of the spotlight turns the metal into hotplates. What I wouldn’t give right now for a set of grips or even some chalk. My only consolation is the others seem to be sweltering as well.

  There are only four of us now and even as I take stock, Skylar tears one of the older girls away from a pole by yanking the girl’s black braid. The girl screams in such excruciating pain, I swear I can feel the hairs tearing off my scalp. She loses her balance, and as she falls, her temple smashes onto a rotating disc. I can’t look at where her body ends up, but there are only two ways out of this game. Over the bars or between the bars.

  I give myself a few seconds to catch my breath. The audience is torn between chanting my name and Skylar’s. I look to the dual jumbo screens. The one on the left flashes the name Skylark in big black letters across a golden background. The one on the right highlights my moniker in silver writing across a too white screen. Suddenly the panel scans Skylar’s face for a close-up, and even though she’s sweating buckets, she manages to purse her lips and blow a kiss to the crowd. At least I think it’s the crowd, until a spotlight shines on the lucky receiver of Skylar’s kiss and illuminates Aiden in the front row.

  The screen changes and I’m forgotten as the audience fawns over Skylar’s coy flirtations. The insidious blackness inside me rears its head, and that’s when I notice it. The belt coiled around Skylar’s waist. My belt is now a part of Skylar’s costume.

  A primeval growl escapes my lips, and the crowd lets out a provocative oohh in anticipation. I’ll give them something to whisper about! Skylar must sense the marked change in my mood, because she immediately stops preening and finally looks down at me. It’s like some cosmic metaphor for our entire relationship. She is all the way at the top of the poles and I’m close to the bottom. I am vaguely aware of another aerialist between us, but he or she is insignificant in my calculations.

  Even now with all my experience, I am still the new one, the underdog, the region dweller come good out of sheer luck. When I arrived at the Citadel after my triumphant brush with death, I was the first child to do so in two years. ‘Til then, Skylar was the star. It didn’t matter to her that her father is Warden of Dante’s Reserve and the circus is only a hobby. She has obvious problems with sharing and showed her appreciation for my ability to stay alive by tormenting me every second of the day. That Aiden has struck up some sort of relationship with her burns me from the inside like acid.

  I reach out for a disc to ease my ascent, but my palms are clammy. The heat is becoming too much. From above, I hear a child whimper. My attention finally settles on the other aerialist, and I realise it’s my little friend. She is locked on a disc halfway between Skylar and me, and for all intents she appears to be paralysed with fear. Skylar notices my reticence and scuttles down with the grace of her namesake. I see what she’s planning to do and I move to counter her.

  “Hey, Dory!” Skylar says in a sickly sweet voice. “Come up here, baby. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Dory cringes as far away from Skylar as she can.

  “Fine!” Skylar snaps, and suddenly she pounces from her pole onto the one Dory is sitting on. I move to intercept her, but there’s no way I’m going to make it in time.

  “Dory,” I scream. “You have to jump.” Dory’s wide eyes tell me she’s not going to do anything of the sort. “It’s not that high,” I lie. “I swear I’ll catch you!” That could be a lie too, but right now I’ll take it over the alternative.

  “Promise?” Dory says.

  Dammit. If I drop her I’m going to be the most hated performer the Citadel has ever known. What choice do I have?

  “I promise. Come on!”

  Skylar takes a swing, but Dory is quick as a starling. No wonder the Citadel chose her. She closes her eyes before she crosses her arms over her chest and steps off the disc. All of a sudden, a gust of wind lashes between the poles, and instead of falling downwards, Dory is pushed back up into Skylar’s clutches.

  Skylar bursts out laughing as she hooks her arm around Dory’s midsection and holds her close. “Looks like the Wind Dancer is nothing but a big fat liar.” Another gust of wind howls through the circular gaps between the poles and the plate. Black dots skip across my vision, and I blink rapidly to clear away the image of a figure cloaked in black. I wrap my legs around the moving pole and let the air cool my palms. I should be angry, but when the wind caresses my hair, a scary calm envelopes me. When I look up again, it’s not Skylar and Dory I see. It’s a Reaper holding Micah. Stealing him away from me again.

  “No,” I whisper. “You’re not taking him!”

  I spring from my pole with the momentum of a gust of wind behind me. It pushes me until I’m level with the Reaper in an instant. Micah reaches out to me, and instead of grabbing him, I reach for the Reaper’s throat. As soon as I touch him, the spell over me breaks, and I realise it’s Skylar’s t
hroat I’m squeezing.

  “Do you want to know the difference between us?” I say to her. Before she answers, I bend my knees so I’m coiled like a spring. “I’m not afraid of falling.” The microphone echoes my words throughout the stadium that has gone silent again.

  “See you on the other side,” I say, and then I push with all my might. The force of my kick and another blast of air sends us over the tops of the poles. My foot collides with a disc and shooting pain explodes up my calf. Skylar screams and immediately lets go of Dory as she claws at me, at anything to hold on to. Dory wraps her arms around my neck, and I pull back and slam my fist into Skylar’s temple.

  We tumble in a circle midair. First I’m on top and then she is, then me again. The passage of time slows and I think, This is it, when Dory’s hair flies across my face and I realise there is air all around us. The stage has become a wind tunnel, trying to slow down our descent. I’ll bet it never occurred to them they wouldn’t have a single winner. Dory goes rigid, and I wrap my arms around her. We’re on top and I’m using one arm to keep Skylar in place. Her eyes fill with panic, and then we hit the stage. Currents of pain ripple through me, and I roll across the wooden stage. I land on my back with my arms still around Dory.

  Everything turns black. Dory crawls off me. Her hands are warm on my cheeks, and then they move to lift up my closed eyelids. “Give me a minute,” a disembodied voice says. I taste metal in my throat.

  “You won,” Dory whispers in my ear. I won. It means nothing. “The show must go on.” She’s certainly picked up the circus propaganda quickly. The show must go on.

  I need to play the gracious winner, but instead, I want to die. Every part of me aches. Dory takes my wrists and tugs me into a sitting position. She’s pretty strong for such a little thing. I try to stand, but my left leg is useless. Dory squeezes into the space under my arm, and with her help, I’m able to get up.

  The spotlight on us is too bright. Both screens are now displaying my name. I raise one arm into the air and wave. The crowd roars into a standing ovation. I locate the Warden’s boxes, and when I find Harlan, I blow him a kiss.

  Anyone watching would think I’m currying favour, but I alone know better. Mistress Lee taught me years ago that patrons are a performer’s most hated enemy. They love you when you’re flying high but will be the first to throw manure in your face if you fall. So I blow Harlan kisses and the screen shows me his beaming smile. All the while I’m thinking, You will be the first to die.

  Twenty-Eight

  The curtain falls slowly, and I stand there waving until the last crack of spotlight is extinguished. Then I collapse onto Dory and close my eyes. Distantly, I hear the rumble of gears rotating back from whence they came. The lights dim a little, and then Gloria’s voice is booming from across the stage. That’s all I remember before I black out.

  ***

  I’m in hospital again. I know this because the constant beep of the life-support machine is driving me insane. Why doesn’t someone turn it off? The scent of daphne mixed with saline solution and sterilising gel makes me want to gag.

  “I can always tell when you’re awake by the way you screw up your face,” Gloria says.

  I open one eye and then the other and then lift a strand of my hair. To my disappointment, it’s still blond.

  “How long have I been in here?”

  “Less than a week, which is more than I can say for some of the other performers.” That’s when I remember what happened.

  “Skylar?” I ask. Gloria raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

  “Do you really care? You seemed to want her pretty dead during the act.”

  So she was there watching. I want to point out the double standard she’s holding me to; after all, it’s her people trying to constantly kill me.

  “Forget about it.”

  Gloria pulls up my eyelid and shines a bright light in my eye. I try to blink, but she holds the lid open. “Try and follow the light,” she says as she moves the beam from right to left. I’m blinded for sure.

  “You are, for all intents, ready to be discharged. Skylar, on the other hand, has just gotten out of intensive care. You are without doubt the better aerialist.”

  “Why do you make that sound like it’s a bad thing?” Why is she scolding me? The last thing I need is some Seeder trying to behave like my parent.

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing, did I? Only that it’s unusual for a girl who hasn’t had the advantage of training for the past six years to somehow manage to beat the Citadel’s most accomplished aerialist.”

  Uh-oh. The truth is hardly a day has gone by that I haven’t woken up early or stayed up late to train in some way. At first it was just a routine I was used to that kept my mind off how much I missed my mother. Then when I realised my aerialist skills could be transferred to aid me in travelling amidst the forest, it became a skill I had to maintain.

  “I was always better than her,” I say. I hope that arrogance will mask the mistake I’ve made. “It’s not my fault she’s barely improved.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I want to slap myself.

  “Like I said, you’ll find no objections from me. Or Harlan. He’ll probably want to reward you somehow. Might I suggest a moonlight tour of the Forgotten Garden?”

  “I’d rather not have to spend more time with him unless I have to,” I say.

  “Ha! You don’t know your new Warden very well, do you? There’s no chance he’d escort you. He’s afraid of heights. Much like a certain captain we both know.” She nudges her head towards the vase of daphne beside my bed. I remember Skylar’s display of affection in the stadium.

  “Can you get rid of those flowers?” I say, not understanding why he bothered to send them. “They’re making me ill.”

  Instead of doing that, Gloria calls the nurses and they prepare me once again for discharge. One of the nurses shoves a gold snakeskin clutch at me, and I am about to say it isn’t mine when the zip gapes open and I see my tablet and pass bracelet inside.

  “I’d like to hope I won’t see you again soon, but that’s probably just wishful thinking,” Gloria says as she sees me out of the hospital. It’s dark again outside. I’m beginning to think I’m never going to see the light of day.

  I hop into the car that’s waiting for me by the curb and relax when I see the backseat is empty of other passengers. I tap on the window to signal I’m ready, and the driver takes off towards the hotel. Or should I call it home now?

  My chest grows tight at the thought of a home without Papa, Micah, and Sully. I scatter the contents of the clutch onto the leather seat as a way of distracting myself. Amongst the electronic devices and tubes of medication is a handmade necklace of conical seashells. Many of them are chipped from wear and tear, but the colours are still starkly beautiful in shades of white and beige. I run my fingers across the porous surfaces and take in the range of textures. The length of necklace is short, as if it were made for a child. On me it wouldn’t be more than a choker. I pick up a crumpled note that also doesn’t belong in my things and read the words in unsteady handwriting.

  Hope you get better soon, it says. On the bottom is a picture of a blue fish, and the note is signed Dory.

  When the hotel staff sees me, they go out of their way to greet me. My face is splashed all over the television screens in the lobby, with catch phrases like merciless detachment and triumphant return being bandied around.

  Once inside the elevator, I hold my finger on the button for the penthouse even though I’ve realised this elevator only goes to my apartment. There’s a big white box on the mantle display table. My heart sinks as I approach it and see Harlan’s signature white envelope with gold writing. Can’t he leave me alone for more than a second? And how does he know I’m out of the hospital already? I remind myself that above all else, Gloria is a Seeder, and that probably overrides all her medical training.

  Inside the envelope is an invitation to dinner this evening. In less than an hour, to be p
recise. This is my prize for showing such merciless detachment and making a triumphant return to the circus. The box is heavier than it appears, and I almost stumble carrying it to my room. When I open the lid, I’m struck dumb by the delicacy of the material, not to mention the black diamonds artfully stitched into the strapless sweetheart neckline. The bodice is my Wind Dancer silvery grey, of course, and fits me like a glove. I try not to think about when Harlan could have possibly taken my measurements as I fasten the zip and hook at the back. In the mirror, I trace the outline of the feathered embroidery at my hips, and despite myself, I spin around and smile as the black, tiered organza train sweeps around my legs.

  Tonight I’m going to be Harlan’s wasteful display of wealth and power, but even knowing that doesn’t make me hate this dress. What does that is the tap on my door and then the makeup girl from the stadium sticks her head in.

  “Knock, knock,” she says. “All ready to be transformed?”

  I suddenly want to tear this dress to shreds because the word transformed is so loaded I can barely stand it. Hasn’t Harlan already transformed me enough? Of course, she has no idea what she’s saying incenses me so much, and I try to lose myself in her excited chatter. Her name is Stacey, and it’s a dream come true for her to be working with me.

  “That dress is incredible,” she says. I mumble something incomprehensible as she dusts and lines my eyelids. “Finished!”

  She grips my shoulders and turns me towards the mirror. I literally don’t recognise the girl in there. Stacey has played on the black and grey theme by making my eyes smoky with a little bit of glitter thrown in. My lips have been painted a rich plum, and I seem to have aged a couple of years in less than an hour. She’s so eagerly expectant of my reaction that I can’t find it in me to disappoint her.

  “It’s amazing,” I say. Which is true. She’s managed to take my plain features and make them almost striking. I’ll never win any beauty pageants, but no one will run away from me in a brightly lit room either. She pretends to dip her head and put away her tools, but I can see she’s smiling.