Cordelia
05-16-09, 08:23 AM
Solo
Some days, Cordelia Vesh hated her job.
The last gusts of a late afternoon thunderstorm spat rain through a tear in the side of the Big Top. A dismembered branch, wiry and crooked, dangled from the hole in the fabric. The storm hadn’t been particularly violent, nor particularly long, but it had caused enough damage around the fairgrounds to add a few solid hours’ worth of chores to Cordelia’s already-overflowing list. And, typically, another storm was gathering on the horizon. It would be upon them by nightfall.
Cordelia blew out a sharp breath and scooted along the taut rope rigging. It was a solid forty-foot drop from her current perch to the wooden floor, and she didn’t look down. Don’t look down, don’t look up, and don’t look back – one of the many pieces of practical advice she’d gleaned from the troupe’s acrobats. Instead, she focused on the tear, her goal, until she was close enough to touch the coarse fabric of the tent. The hole was just below her, slightly out of her reach.
So, hooking her knees over the rigging and tucking the front of her shirt into her waistband, Cordelia tipped herself backward until she hung, upside-down, like a bat from the rafters. She exhaled, inhaled. The air was thick with heat and smoke; below her, suspended at intervals from the rigging, a dozen chandeliers burned away the shadows. The tent was open and ready, waiting for its audience. The show would begin in less than half an hour, and there was a puddle forming in the center ring.
A draft blew in, splattering Cordelia’s face with cold mist. She didn’t have long before the blood rushed to her head – already, she could feel her cheeks warming. Paying careful attention to her balance, she reached over, pried the branch free, and let it fall outside the tent. It landed in the mud with a plop. That taken care of, she pulled her needle and thread from where she’d pinned them to the fabric at her shoulder, and she began to stitch.
It was slow work and by the time she’d finished, her abdominal muscles were trembling and her fingers ached. Blood was ringing sharply in her ears, and she could feel her pulse at her temple. She sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then curled her body upward as she exhaled. Clasping the ropes, she sheathed her needle in her shirt and steadied herself. Gradually, her blood settled and her muscles relaxed, and she began her descent. Focusing only on the path directly before her, she shimmied back through the rigging and down the rope ladder. Her boots hit the floor with a soft thud.
Outside the Big Top, a crowd gathered. Cordelia could hear their muffled conversations and raucous laughter. This was farm country, a rural paradise miles south of Scara Brae, and the people knew how to enjoy themselves. The city crowds were always too polite, too cold, too intent on maintaining their distance. It made crowd control easier, of course, but it made the show less interesting. Cordelia liked the audiences who hooted and hollered, who allowed themselves to become part of the spectacle.
“Delia?”
Cordelia looked over to the main entrance, the giant flap of crimson fabric that let the crowd into and out of the tent. Roger was standing there with a lazy smile and several days worth of five o’clock shadows.
“Ready to let ‘em in yet?” He asked.
Cordelia glanced toward the stage. It was empty, save for the lone stagehand mopping up whatever rain had made it through the hole in the tent. The curtain was in place, and the Candle Boys, a group of scraggly teens, were already up in the rigging with their spotlights.
Nodding to Roger, Cordelia moved past him and through the flap. Outside, she raised her arms above her head and waited until a hush fell over the crowd.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen.” She posed a smile onto her lips and spoke from her stomach, letting her voice carry. “Please have your tickets ready for collection and your hands ready for applause. In a few short moments, this tent flap will open and you will be ushered into a world of adventure and fantasy. Enter and seat yourselves with haste, and we suggest that only those who are not faint of heart claim positions near the front.”
On cue, a team of stagehands pulled open the flap and tied it off to the side like a curtain. They then stepped forward and began to collect tickets. The crowd pressed inward, its excitement as palpable as it was audible. Cordelia and Roger stood to the side, watching.
“Staying for the show?” Roger asked, as the last of the audience filtered in to their seats. The stagehands lingered for a moment, then looked over to Cordelia. She dismissed them with a nod.
The rain was beginning to fall again, and the air was damp, cool, and thick. It smelled like the end of summer, like trees and flowers and dying vegetation. Cordelia breathed in deeply.
“Just for the beginning,” she said, moving closer to the opening in the tent. From their position, she and Roger could see down the center aisle, between all the bleachers, to the stage. The lights dimmed, the spotlights focused. Gradually, the crowd quieted and stared, still in their anticipation, at the curtain. It parted, and the Ringmistress took the stage.
The Mistress’s magic, if it was magic, was a strange sort, one that Cordelia couldn’t understand, much less define. The woman had charm, a type of charisma that radiated off her like heat from a bonfire. She could hold attention like no one Cordelia had ever seen. In fact, by the time she’d reached her mark in the center of the stage, the audience was already straining forward, breath held – a collective body yearning for attention, for love, for release.
The Ringmistress opened her arms to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses, girls and boys, welcome to a world where all your wishes can come true.”
The crowd, tense in anticipation, erupted into applause and Cordelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The Mistress smiled slowly and let her eyes, blue as sky, canvass the audience.
Cordelia blinked hard and turned away before their gazes could meet. If she didn’t . . . well, that was a mistake she wasn’t eager to repeat.
She nodded a goodbye to Roger, then headed off in the direction of her wagon. It was early yet, but she’d had a long day.
Some days, Cordelia Vesh hated her job.
The last gusts of a late afternoon thunderstorm spat rain through a tear in the side of the Big Top. A dismembered branch, wiry and crooked, dangled from the hole in the fabric. The storm hadn’t been particularly violent, nor particularly long, but it had caused enough damage around the fairgrounds to add a few solid hours’ worth of chores to Cordelia’s already-overflowing list. And, typically, another storm was gathering on the horizon. It would be upon them by nightfall.
Cordelia blew out a sharp breath and scooted along the taut rope rigging. It was a solid forty-foot drop from her current perch to the wooden floor, and she didn’t look down. Don’t look down, don’t look up, and don’t look back – one of the many pieces of practical advice she’d gleaned from the troupe’s acrobats. Instead, she focused on the tear, her goal, until she was close enough to touch the coarse fabric of the tent. The hole was just below her, slightly out of her reach.
So, hooking her knees over the rigging and tucking the front of her shirt into her waistband, Cordelia tipped herself backward until she hung, upside-down, like a bat from the rafters. She exhaled, inhaled. The air was thick with heat and smoke; below her, suspended at intervals from the rigging, a dozen chandeliers burned away the shadows. The tent was open and ready, waiting for its audience. The show would begin in less than half an hour, and there was a puddle forming in the center ring.
A draft blew in, splattering Cordelia’s face with cold mist. She didn’t have long before the blood rushed to her head – already, she could feel her cheeks warming. Paying careful attention to her balance, she reached over, pried the branch free, and let it fall outside the tent. It landed in the mud with a plop. That taken care of, she pulled her needle and thread from where she’d pinned them to the fabric at her shoulder, and she began to stitch.
It was slow work and by the time she’d finished, her abdominal muscles were trembling and her fingers ached. Blood was ringing sharply in her ears, and she could feel her pulse at her temple. She sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then curled her body upward as she exhaled. Clasping the ropes, she sheathed her needle in her shirt and steadied herself. Gradually, her blood settled and her muscles relaxed, and she began her descent. Focusing only on the path directly before her, she shimmied back through the rigging and down the rope ladder. Her boots hit the floor with a soft thud.
Outside the Big Top, a crowd gathered. Cordelia could hear their muffled conversations and raucous laughter. This was farm country, a rural paradise miles south of Scara Brae, and the people knew how to enjoy themselves. The city crowds were always too polite, too cold, too intent on maintaining their distance. It made crowd control easier, of course, but it made the show less interesting. Cordelia liked the audiences who hooted and hollered, who allowed themselves to become part of the spectacle.
“Delia?”
Cordelia looked over to the main entrance, the giant flap of crimson fabric that let the crowd into and out of the tent. Roger was standing there with a lazy smile and several days worth of five o’clock shadows.
“Ready to let ‘em in yet?” He asked.
Cordelia glanced toward the stage. It was empty, save for the lone stagehand mopping up whatever rain had made it through the hole in the tent. The curtain was in place, and the Candle Boys, a group of scraggly teens, were already up in the rigging with their spotlights.
Nodding to Roger, Cordelia moved past him and through the flap. Outside, she raised her arms above her head and waited until a hush fell over the crowd.
“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen.” She posed a smile onto her lips and spoke from her stomach, letting her voice carry. “Please have your tickets ready for collection and your hands ready for applause. In a few short moments, this tent flap will open and you will be ushered into a world of adventure and fantasy. Enter and seat yourselves with haste, and we suggest that only those who are not faint of heart claim positions near the front.”
On cue, a team of stagehands pulled open the flap and tied it off to the side like a curtain. They then stepped forward and began to collect tickets. The crowd pressed inward, its excitement as palpable as it was audible. Cordelia and Roger stood to the side, watching.
“Staying for the show?” Roger asked, as the last of the audience filtered in to their seats. The stagehands lingered for a moment, then looked over to Cordelia. She dismissed them with a nod.
The rain was beginning to fall again, and the air was damp, cool, and thick. It smelled like the end of summer, like trees and flowers and dying vegetation. Cordelia breathed in deeply.
“Just for the beginning,” she said, moving closer to the opening in the tent. From their position, she and Roger could see down the center aisle, between all the bleachers, to the stage. The lights dimmed, the spotlights focused. Gradually, the crowd quieted and stared, still in their anticipation, at the curtain. It parted, and the Ringmistress took the stage.
The Mistress’s magic, if it was magic, was a strange sort, one that Cordelia couldn’t understand, much less define. The woman had charm, a type of charisma that radiated off her like heat from a bonfire. She could hold attention like no one Cordelia had ever seen. In fact, by the time she’d reached her mark in the center of the stage, the audience was already straining forward, breath held – a collective body yearning for attention, for love, for release.
The Ringmistress opened her arms to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lasses, girls and boys, welcome to a world where all your wishes can come true.”
The crowd, tense in anticipation, erupted into applause and Cordelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The Mistress smiled slowly and let her eyes, blue as sky, canvass the audience.
Cordelia blinked hard and turned away before their gazes could meet. If she didn’t . . . well, that was a mistake she wasn’t eager to repeat.
She nodded a goodbye to Roger, then headed off in the direction of her wagon. It was early yet, but she’d had a long day.