A Dancing Spirit

[Friday]

 Original found here: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/11507043/



A Dancing Spirit
By Friday/Dandin
 
The dark, cramped carriage rattled along the forest path. Lepidus, carefully attempting to stake his own small territory in the box, couldn’t help but stare at the cloaked stranger across from him and a few seats up. The horse-drawn caravan was taking them all to Monsieur Destraux’s camp. They had no choice in the matter; Monsieur Destraux was secretive. As they all sat on either side of the caravan, facing each other, they tried to hide their stolen glances. Most of them were outcasts, and the attention was a familiar daily occurrence. Out of polite first-hand knowledge of the embarrassment the scrutiny caused, even though to most of them it was a long-forgotten feeling, they hid their glances at one another. All, that was, but one. Lepidus stared at what appeared to be a white muzzle peeking out from the cavernous hood that hid the face of the one stranger who didn’t look at anyone. He couldn’t; he was using the over-sized cloak to hide his face and body. Was he really white? Lepidus couldn’t help but wonder. It was an unusual sight. For that reason, it would make a rather lot of sense; for someone headed to a circus audition.
Lepidus looked down, tracing the swirling designs that tattooed his body. The light-cream patches rolled, and as he ran a webbed finger along the paths, he remembered the prayers associated with each dot that ran alongside the curls, prayers long ago seared into his memory. The caravan hit a bump, knocking his finger off of the trail. He didn’t return to it; he’d not prayed them in years, and he wasn’t about to start again.
A trio of female weasels sat across from him, covered in fake-gold jewelry that jangled with every minor bump the caravan hit; to his right side, a common street magician, little more than a pick-pocket with delusions of grandeur, tried to cultivate an air of mystery that the hooded figure with the white muzzle was doing much more successfully by simply remaining completely unobtrusive. Hunched beside the weasels, between them and the cloaked figure, was a raccoon with various objects strapped to his chest: unlit torches, knives, glass bowls, cutlery. The magician’s billowing cheap robes did not allow Lepidus to see who sat on the far end of his bench, but he remembered a large black bear in brown shorts and a white tunic entering the caravan. A trio of acrobats, a magician, a juggler, a strong-man, and a mysterious figure were his competition. He’d have to keep his eye on the white one.
When the box rattled to a stop, the doors were flung open by an unseen force. Lepidus wasted no time exiting the carriage. He heard the others pile out behind him, but he paid more attention to his surroundings. An overcast forest, deep with green and full of verdant, stationary force weighed down on him through the fog. He couldn’t see more than a few hundred feet in any direction through the mist. The forest floor wasn’t littered with leaves, but instead was covered in moss. The dull mist confined him in a circular coliseum of green and black. Each tree’s trunk stood strong for eleven feet above the ground, straight and black, until they disappeared in a cloud of green. Lepidus knew this biome; he had studied it. It was a simple one: trees, and moss. These trees were unusual and never lost their leaves, and for some reason the moss was the only thing that could grow underneath them.
The warm temperature was made cooler by the moisture in the air, causing his extremities to feel chill even in the warmth of the early spring morning. A train sat atop a set of railroad tracks to his left. The trestles ran into the mist, but he resisted the urge to walk hypnotically along them, following them into the clouds that covered the ground so he might emerge in the sky.
The dull quiet of the sleeping forest was broken by a voice. “Attention! This is your audition! Please, one by one, line up, perform, then step aside. We have four performances that need filling. That means two of you will be going home today.” The voice was thrown into the forest by a black panther squeezed into a fancy grey suit. A red vest peeked from underneath it, giving the impression of his chest being ripped open. He stood not two feet from his train, an engine, water tank, and eight boxcars long. The train was decorated to advertise Monsieur Destraux’s circus, colored after the same fashion as the cat himself, all blacks, greys, and reds.
Already, Lepidus found himself near the back of the line. The trio of weasels unloaded their bars from the top of the carriage and began to set up while the raccoon took to juggling for the panther. He tossed into the air knives, torches that he lit surreptitiously, and glass bowls, individually at first, then adding them all together, until his chest was empty and his worldly possessions were all in the air at once. He finished by deftly returning each item to his vest as he caught it, before grabbing a flask off his hip, taking a swig, and catching the torch to breath flames into the chill air. A slow clap accompanied the end of the performance, and the panther motioned him away.
The weasels had finished setting up their bars, and they took to the air. Their coordination was stunning; it appeared to Lepidus that they were not three beings, but one split into three parts. Their identical appearance and dress abetted the illusion. Destraux was clapping before their performance was even done. “Load your stuff onto the fifth car; I’ve been needing an acrobatic performance.”
Third, the bear stepped forward. He lifted the carriage above his head, muscles bulging, took it four paces, and set it on its side on the track in front of the train. “I’ll remove it when you hire me,” he grunted.
The panther smiled. “Very well. Remove it and take anything you need to the first car. It’s fitting for larger occupants.” The bear bowed and righted the carriage.
Next it was the magician’s turn. Lepidus watched with scorn as he performed simple tricks; making items disappear into his over-large robe, spewing fabric from his mouth, and creating puffs of smoke and flame. The panther watched with disinterest. Lepidus realized the opportunity.
The monk stepped forward and dropped his own cloak to the mossy ground, revealing the bandages that served to clothe his torso down to his knees. His pale tattoos were clearly visible against his dark fur, now, intricate paths traced from the pale circle at the top of his head to his heart and limbs. He stood for a moment exposed to the forest and the chill air, an undersized trunk bound in odd wrappings and with symbols carved into his bark. He was showing he wouldn’t be doing any sleight-of-hand.
“Watch closely,” he ordered. “I’m no street performer.” He meant that for the magician, and it was full of scorn.
Then he disappeared.
Behind Monsieur Destraux, he reappeared. He tapped the cat’s shoulder. In a fright to turn around, the headmaster almost fell off-balance. The otter proffered to him a paw that held a globe of light. After a moment, the cat took it and started studying it. It melted around his paw, causing him to swat at it in a panic as it ran down his arm, then disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving the cat’s tuxedo sleeve purple. The other sleeve turned red, and then the panther’s suit became a harlequin of colors.
Lepidus jumped back, disappearing in another puff of smoke; and re-appearing a few steps behind where he’d been. Raising his paws in the air, he created a strobe of color that burst up like a fountain, the colors running like water into the mist; with that, he turned the ancient forest into a carnival tent. Then everything went dark and an oval of light on the ground focused Lepidus’s silhouette as the center of everyone’s attention. The oval spread to highlight Monsieur Destraux, who appeared bewildered. Then the light shot up in a column, obliterating the panther’s silhouette, before fading and returning the forest to the soft overcast morning light and the panther’s suit to its normal colors. The circus master had regained his composure before the performance had even ended. “It is rare to see a wielder of light magic using his power for spectacle rather than aid. I was under the impression the rules for using such magic were rather strict.”
“I do both,” Lepidus replied, “though now, neither with the sanction of my order.”
The panther considered him for a moment. “I must confess it was a rather inspiring display that would work amazingly in my show. However I am hesitant incurring the wrath of… such parties.”
“I am an outcast; they still hold hope of redeeming me. If they thought I was beyond saving, I would be dead. As such, do not worry. They will not be angry with you if my acts come to their attention. Their displeasure will be focused on me.” Lepidus returned to his brown cloak that lay on the moss. He picked it up, feeling the texture against the moist softness of the woodland floor. He returned it to his shoulders.
The panther looked unconvinced of his argument, but Lepidus turned away, knowing greed would win him to the panther.
The final performer didn’t come to stand in front of Monsieur Destraux until he was motioned forward, and even then, he walked hesitantly. When he did nothing, the panther queried, “What do you do?”
“I dance,” he responded, his voice high. Lepidus knew he was a boy, possibly just out of his teens; but his shrill voice, and voluminous clothing, obscured the fact to everyone else. Lepidus could read him, though; accurately analyzing others was an instinct for those who had been chosen from birth to study light magic.
“Then dance,” the panther ordered. “I will get you music, if you wish.”
The panther called out, and out of the top of one of the boxcars a pair of dogs emerged, one tossing instruments down to the other on the ground. One dog started playing a heavy beat on one drum, and the other started a fast piece on a violin.
The figure started dancing, his cloak twirling about. He kicked and leapt, always keeping his face and body hidden, creating an illusion of a dancing ghost possessing an empty brown cloak. When the dogs finished their song, the figure bowed.
Monsieur Destraux called out, “You, monk, and you, raccoon, get your stuff into the third car. You’ll be sharing. He turned to the horse who’d pulled the cart. “You can take these two back where you found them,” he said, motioning at the hooded figure and the street magician. The magician shot a snarl at Lepidus.
The hooded figure ran up kneeled in front of Monsieur Destraux, pleading. “Please take me, sir, I’ll starve if you don’t.”
“That is none of my concern. These performers will starve if I am not putting on the best show I can.” He turned away.
Lepidus still felt the compulsion to aid others that his order had instilled in him. He walked up behind the figure and bent down. He placed his hands on the figure’s shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Take off your cloak.” The figure said nothing. “I can get you in if you but take off your cloak.” The figure rose slowly, his cloak once again appearing to be levitated by a spirit.
“Monsieur Destraux! Wait,” the otter called.
Lepidus motioned to the dogs to start playing again. A heavy beat again began to ring out through the muffled forest.
The figured dropped his cloak. A white coat shone out, veiled faintly by a shroud of light. The figure wore only a simple undergarment and he shivered slightly in the chill air. Lepidus could see the perspiration dripping from the lion’s paws and knew the shivers were not from cold, but anxiety.
Lepidus whispered, “Now dance, and don’t be afraid. I’ll cloak you.” He picked up the lion’s cloak and backed away.
The lion stood for a moment. His white cloak radiated with sunlight even though none shone through the fog and overgrowth. He stood straight, waiting for the music to start, and every muscle in his thin body showed. His physique was that of a dancer’s, and this was evident even through the pale fur and the light emanating from him. The music started, the violin playing a slow tune that quickly picked up into a festival jig that had melancholic overtones.
Then he began to dance.
He bowed, turning a summersault and then a backflip, and as he did so, where his feet connected with the ground, pawprints of light remained. He whirled, and when he threw an arm or a leg out with a kick, sparkles of iridescent colors exploded, hovering in mid-air to accentuate the movement. His spins threw even more glimmered rainbows, and his leaps were punctuated with flashes of light. Soon, the forest floor was littered with pawprints of white, and a reed flute joined the music, playing a sound like someone singing of better days. The nostalgia seemed to infuse the woods as they loomed, the trees thinking of the better days they had seen. The trunks near the tracks, scarred with train-smoke, began to weep black tears with the morning dew coalescing on their trunks. The beat picked up, and the lion’s movements became faster, but remained strong and controlled. His figure was slowly turning completely white and featureless, a dancing light leaving trails in the woods, truly a spirit.
Then the music stopped, and the light bowed. The whole glade began to clap. After a full minute Lepidus allowed the light to fade and the lion returned to visibility. He offered the cloak, and the lion snatched it, returning the garment to his shoulders and hiding inside.
“Very well,” Monsieur Destraux said, “but it was not his performance that was extraordinary. It was yours,” he said, shoving a finger into Lepidus’s chest.
“No, sir, that is not entirely true. His white coat allowed the performance, as did the beauty of his movements. Another dancer could not mesh half so well.”
The lion broke in, his voice higher than before. “I won’t be a common whore, dancing naked for other’s amusement. I would die first.” He was close to breaking down.
Lepidus tried to comfort him. “You will not be dancing naked. My light will cloak you. No one will see anything. And you shouldn’t be ashamed to show your body; it is beautiful.” Lepidus knew the lion might claim death as a preference, but when his stomach rumbled, he would wish he’d taken the job.
Monsieur Destraux waved the comments away. “You have a spot. Raccoon, out. Lion, you’ll be preforming first, several acts before the otter. That way the patrons won’t go linking the light shows with the same person.”
“I won’t do it,” the lion said.
“Hush,” Lepidus said. “I’ll protect you. Do not fear.” When the lion didn’t respond, he grabbed the boy’s bags from the cart. It was only after he moved towards the boxcar to climb up that the cat followed. They had to walk past the raccoon, who was glaring at both of them. Lepidus saw murder in his eyes, and gave him a wide berth, but the distraught youngling didn’t notice. A sudden movement and a knife from the raccoon’s chest were headed towards the dancer’s ribs. A blast of light, and the raccoon was lying on the ground, moaning in pain as smoke rose from his fur. “Come,” Lepidus said. The lion stared at him, wide-eyed. “He’ll be fine.”
Atop the boxcar, Lepidus fiddled with the round trapdoor until it opened, then climbed into the car. The ladder bars were fastened to the inside of the room, along the walls that curved and became a ceiling, and as such it was difficult to climb down. Inside, he motioned for the lion to drop in the bags. The car was narrow. Round portholes ran the twelve feet of the car on either side, with no blinds or other means of privacy. Seven feet were taken up by the bunk beds shoved into the car, leaving five feet for belongings and a round toilet that was simply an opening onto the track below. Lepidus dropped the stored bags in the small living space, and claimed the claustrophobic top bunk. On either side of the bunk’s edges were the walls, above him the ceiling, and at the head the end of the boxcar.
The lion dropped in, struggling with his robe and the awkward construction of the ladder. He looked around, and Lepidus could see from his confusion that he didn’t understand that this was his new living quarters. He gave a brief run-down. “Those’re the beds. You get the bottom bunk since it’s more spacious. The toilet’s there. That jug on the wall is for holding clean water; we can refill it from the water tank near the front of the car. The ladder is hard to get down but should be easier to get up.”
The lion said nothing. Lepidus started unpacking the few possessions he owned from his travelling sack. “My name is Lepidus. And yours?”
The lion continued to remain quiet, standing in the middle of the car. He looked as if the inside of the cabin was filled with spiders.
Amusing himself, Lepidus snapped his fingers to get the boy’s attention, punctuating the sound with a spark. When the lion jumped, he asked his question again. “Name?”
“Alcarad.” He hesitated, then nearly cried, “I won’t dance like this.”
Lepidus stood up. He gently placed his hands on the lion’s cloaked shoulders, looking down at the young cat’s hanging head. “Yes you will. You are strong.”
“It isn’t dancing, it’s titillation!”
Lepidus shook his head. “Not many women attend the circus. Mostly children. You will have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I was taught dance by the best instructors in the world, I will not dance like a common whore for money. It would be an insult to those who taught me.” His voice was filled with anger, but Lepidus could hear that he was close to tears.
“Even the whores must eat, yes? We all do what we must to live. Be thankful you are not demanded of worse, and be glad you can do something you love.”
Lepidus knew the lion was already resigned to his fate; if he wasn’t, he would be walking away into the forest to truly die. The otter was glad for his need to be a guardian; it was a familiar role, even in as unfamiliar a setting as a circus. He’d talked to people who’d been hired by the enigmatic Monsieur Destraux; the monk knew the life and only hoped he could guide himself and his new ward through it. The lion turned away, and curled up on the lower bunk to cry.
The train lurched, blowing out a shrill note into the haunted forest that began to slowly creep away through the porthole windows. Inexorably, the train began to carry their lives in an unfamiliar direction along the track that had been set long ago.