Carnival of Night

"Where are you taking me?" She asked as she tried to pull her hand free. He did not let go, instead, he looked back.

"You need to leave," he said. There was no trace of the showman in his serious expression. "I have been asked to ensure that you leave."

"By whom?" She protested. "Listen, I'm not leaving unless you..." They stepped out of the tent into the early evening air, which seemed unnaturally cold against her warm skin. She became aware of movement above her head and, looking up, saw the sky was full of birds returning to their nests. Had it grown so late already? She looked back over her shoulder, back inside the tent. She could not see her husband in the pulsing mass of bodies that filled the ring, but she couldn't imagine he was dancing with the same freedom as the others. He will probably be embarrassed, she thought, and then remembered the speed in which he had accepted the offered hand, as though she hadn't been there at all.

A small man was hunched by the opening of the tent. As soon as they had stepped out, he began sowing shut the flaps with thick thread. The music from inside the sealed tent thrilled like a pulse in the night; the sound of the drum all but drowning out the sounds of those inside. They don't know they're trapped, she thought, they have no idea. She needed to warn them, to let them know what was coming. But what would she say? She had no more of an idea what was happening than did any of those poor fools on the other side of the canvas. Even as she thought this, she knew it wasn't true, not in any way that counted. She did not understand what was happening, that was true, but she felt the explanation was a forgotten memory. She already knew the answer, she just needed to remember it.

He had stopped in front of her, waiting, his face obscured into shadow by the wide brim of his hat. Slowly he lifted his arm to her, offering his hand.

"Where are we going?" She asked, her voice quiet. Even though she could not see his face, she had a sense that the smile was back.

"I promised you wonders, did I not?" He said. "And wonders you have seen. I keep my word, always have. And now I am keeping another one. Please, if you would follow me, I will walk you out".

"I don't understand," she said." Why do you want me to leave?" She asked, refusing to move. The shadow before her remained still, the offered hand suspended. Her question remained unanswered and again she had a sense that he was silently laughing at her. Something inside her stomach seemed to flutter and she realised she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly and, with the gentle release of tension, she took the offered hand and allowed herself to be guided away from the tent, and its music, into the silent stillness of the dusk.

He seemed to be in no particular hurry as he led her on a slow walk around the perimeter of the tent. More than once she tripped on outstretched ropes that were impaled into the ground and yet he did not look back to check on her wellbeing. He faced forward, moving at a slow and steady pace, his fingers loosely entwined in hers, leading her on.

They walked past a row of silent wagons and carriages. She was struck by an air of abandonment about them, as if they had not only recently become vacant, but had stood here waiting for many years. Doubtless this was the effect of the darkening sky above them, and yet, as they continued their circumnavigation, she felt the modern world receding behind her. Even the lights of the village were now lost to her as the huge bulk of the tent appeared to move to cut her off from home. It struck her that they were going the long way towards the entrance to the camp; had they gone the other way she may well have been home by now.

There were lights ahead of her, pale and yet warm. It would seem that not everyone was inside the tent. One of the coaches was ahead of her and a flickering yellow light shone from an open shutter. As she neared it, she felt Emile's fingers slide from her grasp. She came to a stop, curiosity getting the better of her. The coach was large and ornately decorated with swirls of brightly coloured carven wood, its spoked wooden wheels a bright summery yellow. She paused by the open window.

The interior of the caravan was far more luxurious than she would have imagined. The walls were decorated with brightly coloured fabrics and there was a large crimson rug taking up most of the floor. Bookshelves lined the wall opposite and, in an alcove at the front, there was a bed covered with what looked to be a thick fur blanket. There were three figures in the room and Marie found that their identity was not a surprise to her. The two figures in the centre of the room were known to her, though not as familiar as the person who sat on the edge of the bed, staring with wide hazel eyes at the figures before her. The magicians were dancing, making slow movements in time to a music only they could hear. The man's skin looked even more deathly pale in the candlelight, his red lips the only colour now that his eyes were lowered, studying the woman in his arms. As they kissed, Marie was once more struck by the odd contrast they made together: her midnight skin made all the darker by his seemingly frozen flesh.

Marie could not take her eyes off them as they moved in slow circles, lost in each other. It was only when the man, breaking the kiss, turned his pale blue gaze on the figure on the bed that Marie remembered her existence. Beverley hesitated for a moment, but then she rose, joining the couple in the centre of the room. The couple parted to accept her between them: the man in front; the dark woman behind. Marie watched, astounded, as Beverley inclined her face to accept the pale man's kiss, her lips parted, her eyes closed, her bare arms reaching up and around his neck. Time seemed to draw out and even the wild tumult inside the tent seemed to fade into a still quiet. Marie held her breath, stunned into disbelief as she watched the young woman turn her head, her face flushed, as the dark woman behind her bent her head down in a soft kiss. It was not a chaste kiss, their lips parted, and Marie caught a glimpse of tongue as the two women seemed to melt into each other. As they kissed, the pale man set to work relieving Beverley of her dress.

Marie almost screamed when she felt the light touch of a hand on her shoulder. The Ringmaster regarded her for a moment before saying, "This is, I think, a private matter, a private show. We should not intrude."

it was hard to walk away, to turn her face away from the display in front of her. There was beauty in it, a stark intimacy that left her breathless. If asked, she would have said that the idea of two women together was wrong, was against god. And yet, when she saw the older woman caress and cup the young woman's naked breast, she felt a piercing sting of envy.

"Please," Emile persisted, his voice quiet and calm. "This is not meant to be part of the show. This is private, for the girl alone."

His arm was around her shoulder and, after one last lingering look inside the caravan, Marie allowed herself to be drawn away. There was a heavy ache in her chest, and she found that her body was trembling.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice as quiet as his. "What is happening?"

The Ringmaster smiled at her as they walked together. "It is what we promised. No more than that. An evening of wonders. Would you have had us break our word?"

There was a fire up ahead, its flickering light dancing on the sides of the cages and covered wagons.

"Where are you taking me? Why did you ask me to come with you?"

For a long while he did not answer, and they continued to walk forward in silence. Ahead, she could make out the silhouette of a man standing before the fire, his back turned to them. His face was hidden, and yet his tall shape was familiar. She stopped, looking at the Ringmaster who regarded her with a look that almost seemed sad.

"I wanted you to meet someone, before you return home," he said. He saw from her expression that this explanation was unsatisfactory. He took a breath. "I suppose he would want you to know, he has become quite irritatingly correct in recent years."

From behind them, from deep inside the tent, drums continued to beat, a heavy steady sound she could feel in her chest.

"What are they doing in there? what am I missing?"

"The final act. the finale. Part of me is sorry you will miss it, but I knew if I did not introduce you now, there would be no other time. He doesn't take part, you see, hasn't done for years, although, when he did, he was magnificent."

"Why do you want me to meet him?" Her voice was low, as if she knew the question had to asked, despite her reluctance to hear the answer.

"Because I think he will like you. no-one should be alone; do you not agree?"

She stared at him in confusion and yet, stirring in her subconscious, an understanding was awakening.

"My husband..." she said, and inwardly cursed the lack of strength she heard in her voice.

Emile met her gaze, and a broad hungry grin formed on his face.

"Oh, my dear child," he said. "I'm sure your husband is a loyal and honourable man but, let me be clear. if your husband hasn't already broken his marriage vows it will only be a matter of time. I will promise you; he will break them multiple times before the drum is silenced. I wouldn't judge him too harshly. Soledad claimed him as soon as she saw him and there is no mortal man yet born who could deny her."

Mortal, she thought. The word seemed to hang in the night between them. Who are these people?

"Travellers," the Ringmaster said, clearly enjoying the look of surprise on her face. "There is so much of this world to see to experience. We try to sample as much of it as we can. But we have talked enough. You have a choice now." He gestured to the darkening shapes of the village buildings. "You can, if you wish, go home. You are free to do so, with the regards and leave of the company. But" he said, nodding to the large figure standing by the fire, "I would suggest you make a detour. Speak to our friend. He has been a long time without company."

"Why should I speak to him?"

"Because he likes you. And God knows the miserable bastard likes no one these days".

"He doesn't know me."

"And yet..." He left the sentence unfinished. "Let me be plain, Lass. I would have had your daughter at the show. She would have had a rare time; you were right to be concerned. There's more than a few of the company pissed at me for not getting her a ticket. But I knew he'd like you from the way you stood up to me. When he heard you were coming, he made me promise to let you out before the finale. The least you could do is thank him."

"My husband..."

"Ain't your husband no more. Trust me, he wouldn't thank you if you tried to help. And he'd never forget what you denied him. I tell the truth, no point doing otherwise. But you're free to go: to go home or..." A nod in the direction of the shadow by the fire. "You'll be safe. He don't believe in taking anything that's not offered, and not even then, not for more years than what's good for him. Go to him, thank him, you owe him that, and go home. Or go home now. Your choice, I've said my piece."

And with that, he turned, and walked back in the direction of the great tent. With a flourish of his hat he turned, "Either way lass, it's been a genuine pleasure." He bowed low, turned, and was gone.

The houses of the village were little more than huddled shadows against the hill; she could still make out her own home; it was very close. As she watched, a yellow flickering light appeared in a lower window: her daughter, expecting their return. All she had to do was keep walking; her old life was waiting for her.

She walked from the path, stepping over guide ropes, approaching the fire. The man turned as she neared. Silhouetted against the fire, she could see little of his features, and yet she could make out his eyes—grey with flecks of gold— as though they produced their own light.

"You shouldn't be back here," he said, his voice a low growl. "Shows in the tent, you don't want that, you need to leave."

She hesitated for a second, unable to find the words. Finally, she gestured to the violin hanging loosely from his long fingers.

"You played that very well," she said. He did not respond, although he did lower his gaze to glance at the Instrument. As soon as his gaze left her, she let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding. Embarrassed, she spoke again. "It's been so long since I heard..."

He cut her off impatiently.

"I thought you didn't hold with music, nor dancing. You find it sinful."

"Can you tell me it isn't?" The response came to her lips before she could stop herself. "There's dancing and then there's dancing, and if you find nothing sinful in the dancing, I saw tonight then...". Her voice faltered.

"You didn't like it?" His eyes were on hers again. She didn't answer; He didn't smile. "Or is it that you liked it a little too much, is that it?" She opened her mouth to answer, colour flooding her cheeks in outrage, but no words came. She felt, all of a sudden, completely at sea.

"Why are you here?" He asked. He hadn't taken a step towards her and yet she felt the distance between them closing. He seemed to loom in the firelight.

"I don't know," she finally answered. "The ringmaster, he said I should speak to you, to say thank..."

"You owe me nothing. I saw you didn't belong here, so I told him so. Best be on your way now."

The way he was looking at her, studying her. It made it very difficult to look away.

"I'll wish you goodnight, Lass. Now, if you don't mind..." He turned his back, facing the fire. He stayed that way until he heard her retreating footsteps fade into the dusk.

She did not make it far. Her eyes stung with tears of humiliation. What had she expected? What had she wanted? It seemed that nothing in the world made sense anymore. The pounding rhythm from inside the tent filled the night air and, beneath it, she could make out the moans and cries of the people inside. Not all of those sounds were human. She stopped, closing her eyes, trying to shut out the sounds and cling onto something that made sense. She remembered the keening rise of a violin and her breath caught in her chest. When she opened her eyes, the flickering light of home seemed as distant as starlight.

Three.

He closed his eyes. He just needed a moment, some space to regain his calm. His teeth clenched when he thought of Emile. He swore that, when that damned popinjay came back from wherever he was hiding, he would tear him limb from limb. What the hell had he been thinking, bringing her here? Her smell hung in the air, the smell of a kitchen: rosemary and flowers.

He tried to ignore the rising drumbeat from the tent, even though it seemed the air around him throbbed, bringing back so many sensations. He cast them from his mind. That life was behind him, he had sworn it. Inside, he continued to rage against the ringmaster. There had once been a time he would have torn out the man's throat for such wilful disobedience. He had been very clear: get the woman out, along with her husband, before the finale. And instead of that, the wretch had brought her to him. What had the fool expected, that he would forget his oath? Drag the woman back to the tent and retake his place as master of ceremonies? Even the thought of it stirred something dangerous inside of him and he quickly buried it. No, Soledad made a finer mistress of the dance than he had a master. It matched her personality far better than his.

Even as he thought this, he knew it was not the truth. How long had it been since he had lost control? Years? Could it be decades? So long. The music swelled again as if to echo the swirl of emotions inside. Where the hell was the ringmaster? If he delayed any longer it would be too late. Not for the first time he cursed his decision not to demand his own key.

A movement behind him made him turn, the curse dying unspoken on his lips when he realised it was not the ringmaster but the woman. She stood with the warm firelight illuminating her face, her pale freckled skin seemed to shine faintly in the dimness. As he watched, she reached up and slowly removed the pins to her white cap. Her eyes were wide as she dropped it to the floor, shaking loose her long red hair so it fell to her shoulders, framing her face. He could see she was trembling but the powerful scent on the air was not of fear but something else, something else he had almost forgotten but to which he found an answer rising up inside his own body. This time he could not find the words to drive her away. Part of him hoped she would see sense, turn, and run away. But she held her ground, refusing to look away as he closed the distance between them in three long strides to take her in his arms.

His hand found the back of her neck, burying itself in the rich scarlet thickness of her hair. He took hold. Tension sang in her body as she felt the physical reality of him, the strength; she felt small in his arms.

He was not gentle, displaying a hunger she shared and reciprocated, despite her nerves. He found her mouth already parted and ready when he bent down to take possession of it. The kiss was brutally passionate, drawing the breath from her chest. His face was rough with stubble, course against her skin. Her arms stretched to one side as she surrendered, before reaching around to clasp his back.

He began to explore her body through her clothing, pawing, and squeezing her full breasts so that her nipples awoke. The hand slipped from her breasts to her legs, his hand slipping beneath her petticoat and shift to touch the warm flesh beneath. His fingers were rough, callused, sandpaper against the silk of her thighs.

She tore her mouth away from his kiss. "Not here," she said, "take me somewhere else, take me to where you...". He studied her face, and, for a moment, she thought he was about to send her away again. His expression was unreadable. Releasing his hold on her, he took her hand. Without a word he led her away from the fire into the shadows.

She imagined that he was leading her to one of the caravans, possibly similar to the one currently occupied by Beverley. Instead, he stopped by a cage, one she had seen before. He turned, looking at her again, the unspoken question clear in his eyes. Was she sure? In response she kicked off her shoes, the wet grass cold against her bare feet.

Three metal steps led up to the cage. He went first and she followed after. He left the door open, and she was sure that this was in case she changed her mind. In answer she walked to the farthest corner, trailing her hands along the cold iron lattice of the cage. The metal was wet, and her fingers came away shining with moisture. The floor was warm but slightly damp under her feet, a mixture of soft earth and straw. Her feet sank down a little as she walked. The smell in the cage was not unpleasant, a heavy mix of earth, musk and sweat.

She turned and waited. He did not keep her waiting long. He came for her and she was ready for him. He began relieving her of her clothing, her dress put up no resistance at all. The sound of tearing fabric seemed to drive both of them wild. He clawed at the rigid fabric of her stay, trying to find access to the soft flesh beneath. The idea of taking the time to unlace was maddening to her but, as she was about to tell him to let her do it, she felt the front of the garment part, the binds cut through. What had he used? A knife? His nails? The thought was driven from her mind as he took hold of the soft linen of her shift. The sound of tearing fabric was much louder now, and she groaned in pleasure as she was revealed to him, her breasts tear-drop shaped, her nipples dark and erect. Her breast felt very small in his broad rough hand, and when his calloused fingers trapped her nipple there was an explosion of electricity that seemed almost painful in its intensity.