The Rabbit Dies Pt. 04

I forgot how absolutely sublime it is to move and stay still at the same time. It's amazing, a true monument to people's ingenuity to the grand pursuit of idleness. To be sitting down, immobile, completely still, and nevertheless be traveling is an absolute marvel. Whatever genius came up with that outlandish concept deserved to live the rest of their life being carted around for that simple thought.

But alas, that magical time is now over, and I am standing still and staying still, the sensations matching together as I stand outside the cart with the other denizens as it shifts and writhes. Shadow things with no real form, small really, not even coming up to my knee. One of them seems to have taken a shine to my shield, perched atop it and calmy leaning against my head. Doesn't weigh a thing either. It can stay there until I decide it can't anymore.

Some forgotten town that may not have a name, loggers mostly, from the look of the people come to gawk. Bearded broad men carrying their work in their shoulders, their eyes. Yet I can't help but notice the lightness in their steps. Heard rumors that log drivers are good dancers, and from what I can tell, that might be true. Still, they eye me like I might be something to take. I don't mind, not really. So long as they stay over there like good little boys and don't bother the work. They're going to be paying so they better not trash the place beforehand. I can't clean the perfume and the floral cloy from my noise.

The mistress is nowhere to be found, closeted away in her home. The noises don't paint a good picture. Saws and nails and all sorts of the wrong type of banging. Amaru doesn't seem to mind, so I don't either. I do mind the gathering crowd though. It is my job to make sure that they stand over there and don't come any closer. So far, everything seems calm and collected and over there. The shadow thing shifts and moves to my head, sitting like a toddler. I sigh and let it happen. It's fine. Still doesn't weigh any more than an idle thought.

"Does he have a name," some smart ass in the crowd ventures. I glare in the general direction of the voice. There are no further remarks from the gathered men. Mostly men. Some women poke through, attached at the hip of something a little more rugged than they pretend to be. I don't bother to pick out faces. The voice had a horn attached to it and it came from behind me.

"No seriously," says Annette, "I think he should."

She sidles next to me, strolling once more like nothing in the world could be better. She's in a new dress now, the last one left in a crumpled heap somewhere forgotten. Low cut, and she hums with my blatant ogling, puffing out her chest in some vain attempt to get me to look more, when I'm already diving headfirst into her cleavage.

"So then, what do you think we should name him?" I say.

She stretches and thinks to herself, strutting and posing and showing off the dress and the way it hugs her figure. It dances against her skin, giving the impression of her hips but never staying with it for too long. Shame, such a shame that she is not naked and kneeling and panting before me.

"Eddy," she says, "I say he should be Eddy."

"Any reason?"

"None whatsoever. He just kind of looks like an Eddy."

I shrug. Eddy doesn't seem to mind being christened at least. He stays on my head as the crowd shifts and waits for something amazing to happen, in contemplative silence. The carriage continues to rock and knock and shake and rattle and roll as whatever preparations continue.

"Are you going tonight?" Annette asks.

"Wasn't planning on it. Not exactly interested in watching."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun. It's nice to watch. I've watched you before and I have to say that was beautiful. At least come for me. I'm leading the band. Never worked with full instrumentation before. Once worked as a duet with a guy who had a flute. Don't work with people who play the flute by the way. It makes them... off."

She looks at me again and presses her breasts onto my arm. They make a wonderful argument. They make a very concise and logical point that I will get to touch them afterwards and maybe kiss them if I behave. Although I am pretty sure that would happen regardless. Then again, I'll get to see more of the dress and the low cut and the hips and the legs. And I would have a very close seat to the stage, and thus the orchestra.

"Alright."

Annette beams at me and her teeth gleam in the sunlight. Eddy shifts and makes an odd noise. Squeak, maybe, or a purr. Not quite sure how to classify it, but he settles back to stillness and I am left to my duty.

The crowd keeps watch. The carriage shudders and dies and finally settles into stillness. The horses are seen too, and I have left to do is wait for the doors to open. The little shadow things do most of the work for the venue, laying the lanterns and the tables outside as more and more of it spills outside. By the time the sun decides that it would be a good time to start slacking off, the lanterns are lit, and the tables are set, and all is right with the world. The invisible wave wafts through the air and the thoughts start once more. I miss Annette and her skin and her body and it being naked and serving me. But it is not to be. I would prefer it, but it can wait. She's just playing music and by the time morning comes round, she'll have a full night in there, breathing the fumes and that would certainly do a number on anything that so much as knows what a desire is. I shrug and roll my shoulders as the shadow thing on my head pokes me and points to go away. It is his time to work, and I am in the way. Far be it from me to keep a man from his work. I look away for a moment and when I look back, there is a small booth before the entrance. There Eddy sits, watching the crowd with placid attention before the gates open.

---

The inside has transformed completely. A cabin manor made theater, plush with curtains and red and overflowing floral vases. That same scent of the tea drifts through the air with utter abandon. I shudder and step forward. Not good. Not good, but great and a wonderfully bitter tingle in my skin with each step. More shadow things dart and dance, more alive than they've ever been in the sunlight. Dark things enjoy dark spaces. One sneaks in front of me and stops my steps. I am tired of small things telling me where to go, but not so tired as to stop obeying.

It leads me past the grand entrance way, through a door that almost does not look like a door. I think this one is a she. And then it becomes as such. Still without a name. Still without a personality other than bland obedience to a master that is not me. The halls are tight, tighter than I find comfort in. Squeezing, crushing, suffocating me in that same cloying perfume that tries and fails to invoke a soft meadow to lay one's head down in. It smells too made, too manufactured, and measured to be comforting and safe. She leads me to another door that is almost not a door, more of a bit of wall that decides to swing open every so often, and knocks. Surprising strength coming from something so small and weightless.

"It's open," Amaru says. I bristle and want to leave, but that would be impolite. He had sought me out and the little shadow thing politely creaks the hinges hidden in the wall and steps aside before letting me in.

A small parlor greets meet, a massive mirror showing my face to me for the first time in a good long while. I almost laugh. I do not remember my face being that sullen, that fierce, that sharp and glowering. But it is there, and blue eyes look back into me and recognize it as me before moving on to my host. He sits at a small table, applying some soft powder to his skin, makeup and paint scattered at reach. Dark black lines circle his eyes, sharpening his gaze into dagger points and I freeze. He is still shirtless and the ink on his skin swirls and dances. I notice the looping lines above his crotch, marking him and staining him and snatching my attention. The fierce predator smiles and the ears drop, and he stands.

He's taller than me. Not surprising given his natures, but it's not often I have to look up to someone. Even the bastard is shorter than me, although I think the ears tip it in his favor. I definitely look down on him, though. It's the smile, the lips, that does me in, and the odd color he plants on them. Pure snow white, clear and undriven, almost blinding. And the teeth, the wonderful bright shiny teeth that I can't look away from. I need to know how they do that, if only to satiate my curiosity. There has to be a good method that I am not aware of, something that works better than my routine.

"Hey," he says and shuffles in his seat like a nervous kid sent to his mother.

"Hi." He gets a response. I know him well enough for that.

"What do you think," he says as he gestures to his face.

"Good work."

"Thank you. I can never quite tell if I do a good job with it. Dantea always says it's fine, but y'know, she's probably just saying that. Are you just saying that?"

"No, I'm not. Never took you for something this theatrical."

He sighs and shifts back. I get to see the muscles on his shoulders ripple and flex in the mirror. I should keep him here and never let him leave. Lock the door and turn down the lights and ride him till our bones turn to powder. I do not shift my thighs together to alleviate some rather uncomfortable sensations. That would give it all away. I set my face to stone and think of nothing at all. Certainly not the tightness in his leggings that outline a wonderful shape that snakes down to his knee.

"I like and I don't. Sure, putting on a show is nice, but it's the same thing, every single time. At least when I was with the Midnight Carnival, I got to be different types of clowns. I liked being the sad ones, if you believe it. But here, I get up on stage. Dantea gets up on stage. She gets up on me and then it's over. People like it. Or at least pay to see it. But it's gotten stale. You never did the walkabout, did you?"

"I think I'm still on it, by some definition."

"Fair. I miss that. I miss that so much. And I like the traveling part of this. When we left the Thistles, there was the hot spring in the foothills with this wonderful willow hanging over it. And I'll never forget this. The steam from the springs froze on the branches and just made the tree sparkle and shine. I said we should stop and rest there for a bit, but she said no."

"Shame."

"Yeah. Heard from Annette you guys went swimming a few days ago in the river. From what I've heard from Dantea, they're starting a log drive in the morning. Last chance for something fun. Should be a good turnout."

"I've been outside. A lot of people were there. One of those shadow things seemed to take a liking to me."

He chuckles a little and the world quakes beneath him with the motion. I watch the lines of dark ink on his skin dance and shift with the muscles and once again, all the various ways I know to take a man to his knees flash through my mind. He might get a bruise or two, but it would be worth it. He would like it too, probably.

"One of the best parts of the job, honestly. No clue what they are. Dantea tried to explain it to me once, but I'm not the best study of that sort of thing. Something about animated light and summoning will for it. I'm not sure. I'm really not sure. But they're friendly enough."

That momentary elation for the simple joy of camaraderie fades and once more I am left with the deflated paint of a man who does not want to perform.

"Do you want to go out there?" I ask. I know the answer. I don't know if he does. Or at least well enough to say it.

"No." And my doubt was not worth the thoughts.

"No, I don't Claire. I really, really don't. But that's the job. And there are parts I like. I'll be fine. Not the first time I've had a hard time getting up and at them."

"I don't know if you need to hear this, but you don't have to go out there. You can refuse to do this. Probably a bad idea to get on the bad side of the succubus, but you don't have to go out there."

He chuckles again and its soft, so incredibly soft and jumping. Bird song and brook babble and the rustle of wind and leaves on a summer afternoon.

"I know. You sound just like him, you know that? Told me the same thing or made me feel it. One last time, though. Bad form to leave a job unfinished. So, she gets one more time. And then we talk, and she gets to make a case that I should stay. I don't think she'll convince me this time."

---

The chair is comfortable, I will give the decorator that. And while it is appreciated, it certainly isn't welcome. It's just too far from the lip of the orchestra pit to put my feet up. But it is wider than some of the chairs I've had the pleasure of using. It's not the best chair, but one of the better ones. And I get a wonderful view of the curtain as it hands from the rafters, another massive tribute to red and crimson and alizarin.

The crowd filters in, carrying the hushed excitement they paid for. A name they know came to town for an exciting show. Of course, they had to see it. None of them sit next to me though, keeping the kindness of a one seat gap intact.

Surprisingly calm considering the clientele. Expected more rambunctious antics, maybe a brawl, especially with this overwhelming red. But everyone seems calm and collected. Some bad jokes, sure, and some laughs that come out a little too barking and sharp to be considered polite, but nothing extreme. I feel the eager anticipation being shoved in me from the wave, and I wouldn't put it past the mistress to do something similar to calm the nerves and keep everyone sedated. Or at least civil. A shadow thing that I decide is a boy, and thus it is, comes trapsing by with a tray held over his head. Blackberries, dusted in fine powdered sugar. I take one and it does not seem to mind that I do not pay. And they are good. Very good. I appreciate them, but the little shadow thing comes and goes before I can show my thanks.

"Can I have one?" Annette asks. She just pops her head up above the barrier, still in that same low-cut dress, leaving over and letting it all spill and cascade. I can feel the eyes behind me look to her. I move and shift to block most of them. That is for me and me alone. At least, as long as they do not move forward, I will allow the wayward glance to slip through the barrier. I hold up my hand and like an obedient baby bird she opens her mouth. I toss it in clean and easy.

"Oh damn. Those are good. Little shadow things know they're way around berries." She snickers and her chest jumps and bounces again, and I once more feel the eyes turn and stare and gawk. The claw in my gut rakes and tears at the muscle. She beckons me and only me and I am the only one that stands. She beams and lets me look over into the pit.

Dozens of the shadow things sit in rapt attention, more eyes on Annette. But they do not leer and gawk. They just sit quietly. Each and every one has an instrument on their lap. Each and every one is polished and shined and tuned. Annette holds up her hands and, as one, they all rise with her. She holds for a long, long, long moment, hands aloft and wavering, trembling with raw anticipation. At her command, they all play a single, long note, clear as ice crystal on still pond, in perfect harmony, light and joy and show condensed into a single sound drawn and teased like a spider web. With another wave they stop and set the instruments down.

"May," she says as she points to a trumpet two rows back, "Still a little out of tune, sweetie. Try taking it in half an inch." The relevant shadow thing fiddles and fumbles with the metal. Annette turns to me, and I can't help but huff out a laugh.

"I thought they sounded fine," I say.

"They're amazing. You heard the rehearsal's, right? I'm so excited. I don't even know what some of the instruments in the back are called."

"They look like drums."

"Yeah, but they have specific names. Like swords. Or axes or something. And one of them has to be hit with a rake or something. Giovanna, let her hear the drum thing. "

Another shadow creature produces a fan and scratches it against the drumhead. It sounds like someone scraping a rake across a drumhead. Not unpleasant, and I bet there are several compositional arrangements that can make very good use of the noise. Annette is happy with the new toy, so I am happy too. From the back, yet one more shadow thing holds up an open with ten fingers. A second later, one of them goes down. She shoves me away and back to my seat and I am left to gawk as the lights slowly snuff out, one after the other and plunge the audience into absolute darkness.

The music starts up and the colors bleed from the gaps in my thoughts. Red. All so red. Pink and vermilion and crimson and blood and madder and coral and salmon and cardinal and carmine. So, red. My skin is red. The curtain is red. The sound wriggling through my ears is red and rust and rose and I try to think of blue, of green, of yellow, but they are all red. Red. So very red. The heartbeat in my chest might be red, but I am not sure. Something tugs at my hands and decides that I need to look inside myself to confirm. My eyes roll and soften, and I slump in the seat as the curtain rises.

The stage is empty, and the world is blue now. Calm blue that cools the veins, cools the mind, slides through the canals of thoughts with rippling circles, chasing away the nasty, nasty red. It is blue. I am blue and the stage is blue and the air I breathe gives me more blue to consume in my chest. I don't like being blue. Being red was more interesting. I am somewhat concerned about what yellow could do to me, but before that idea crystallizes into a train of thought, it goes away. I was not thinking blue, so that couldn't be, and the blue decided that for me. It was the right decision. I should think blue and nothing else. Blue is not my favorite color. Red isn't either for that matter.

My distaste for blue lets me see the wave and wobble of the conductor's horn peaking over the lip and I remember that green. That is a good color, one of my recent favorites, although it has to do mostly with its association to a wonderful wriggling muscle that does wonders when I open my legs for it. I should open them now. And the green might come and take me. The stage shimmers and shifts and it is no longer a single color. Multitude rainbows shatter and break against one another as a figure of red takes the stage, gliding through the bombardment, dodging every shard without moving from their path. The red comes to the center and bows. The audience loses what little of their minds remained.

The movement takes my mind and slides it over into the forgotten place where dreams go to die. I do not need them. The red quivers and quakes and that is all I need. The red dances and shifts and moves, it moves like oil on water and mixed sandstorm gales with blizzard hail. Creation and unmaking with endless shake and union and I cannot look away. There is music, but it is color and shape and form and formless nonsense that pierces everything imaginable.

The red is joined by a blue, a calming blue that moves, but not quite in the same way. Slower, calmer, gentler, each step a tectonic shift through the wooden planks. I can feel the rumble travel through my hips and settle in the base of my neck before bouncing off of me like a cave echo. Calm. I am calm. The red is no more because of the blue waves that come from the form. It dwarfs the red, crushing it and bringing it to heel. The audience claps and cheers, respectfully so, as the colors start to mix and blend.

The music softens for a bit and I can see again. No more vivid swirls of everything magical and wonderous poured through my pupils. It's still there, at the edges, at the fringe, but it doesn't threaten to take more than that at the moment. I can still see the horn bobbing and I take a deep, deep breath. It smells like that tea again. My stomach turns and I gaze towards the ceiling. Intricate carvings of nude figures dancing and cavorting in what might be a field or a forest. The shadows are too deep and reaching for me to actually tell, but I believe it is tastefully done. It should be at least. Everything in this place bleeds the impression that the owner has good taste.