Imaginary Archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ib_archive) wrote2009-03-30 04:34 pm
ib_archive) wrote2009-03-30 04:34 pm
Entry tags:
[story] zoetrope
author: h bright (Dreamwidth)
It is a hard thing to know that tonight you will die.
She hesitates at the city gates, one hand on the cool stone of the milepost, bare toes tickled by the warm evening breeze. The lights amid the trees are like a crowd of stars come to earth. She can hear the laughter and the shouts, the creaking of mechanisms, and the music.
Beneath the mask, underneath the painted smile, she bites her lip and tastes regret mixed with excitement. She then steps out of the city for the last time.
The silk is so soft in her hands that she almost can't feel it. So soft, it's like air on naked skin. It seems a pity to cut it, to stitch it, to mar its perfection.
Do you really want to walk through the town wearing nothing but an artfully draped piece of cloth?
"No, I suppose not."
She holds the cloth out at arm's length, studying it, imagining it cut and sewn and shaped. She toys with the image of a gown: elegant lines, a hem that just brushes the earth.
For Carnival? For dancing in the grove? I think not. Besides, it wouldn't suit me.
"No," she says a second time, wistful, "I suppose not."
A week before, as the summer moon is waxing, she sits under the attic window stitching feverishly. She has had barely a moment to work on it with her days full of commissions. Her master is kind, but cannot be expected to sacrifice business for his servants' luxuries. Especially when it is her needle skills, her discerning eye, that have brought him such a glut of new patrons.
Word has got around. The bolt of fine silk is from a wealthy gentleman. He hopes to see her wearing it at Carnival. Presumably he hopes also to assist in its eventual removal. She would not have accepted it, but she was overruled.
It sets off your skin and my hair. Let him make a fool of himself.
She has ruined it: cut it to shreds, strewn it around the tiny room like forgotten party streamers. Now she must reassemble it, turn the wreck into the dress she sees in her mind's eye.
Rather you than me.
Carnival has already begun, and she is in her attic room, stitching in the last painstaking details. It is a living thing, crafted in three dimensions by her needle and thread. When the last stitch is complete, she shakes it out.
As striking as a magpie's wing. As graceful as a swan's neck. As troublesome as a Frenchman with wine in him. I'll never get those ribbons undone.
The silk slips easily over her head, embracing her body. She reaches behind her and pulls the ribbons tight with a smooth, practised motion. The skirt floats and twirls about her knees. She steps into the delicate sandals she could barely afford, brushes her hair until it shines, and twirls, just once. Only then does she glance into the pitted mirror, running a critical gaze over the gown.
Hurry up!
She kneels by her narrow bed and drags out a wooden box. She opens it slowly, careful not to get dust on her dress. Her hands shake just a little.
The mask is as she remembers. Beneath her fingers, the smooth surface feels soft as skin, though cold as marble. The exquisitely shaped eyes, that tilt up just a little, are dark. The lips are full and deep red. They seem about to part on a word or a laugh.
She lifts it up, turns it briefly in her hands, a little afraid, but exhilarated. She runs her thumbs over the high cheekbones, the glitter a tiny roughness.
In her mind, there is a breathless silence.
She lifts the mask, fits it to her face, and ties the ribbons.
It is a hard to know that you will die tonight, but right now she feels alive. The dress flutters about her knees, too short for a lady of quality. She attracts gazes, and they can't decide whether they despise or desire her. For some, it's both.
There is smoke in the air – the acrid gunpowder of fireworks, bitter wood of bonfires – and beneath it are the scents of a thousand foreign foods. The music is a battle of sound, an indistinguishable medley. People cram together and split apart like clouds on a windy day. The sky is dusky with smoke, and the stars peer through like curious children. Some are sitting and eating, but most are occupied with sideshows, the wonders and magic laid out beneath the lantern-crowned trees.
There are dancers – over there.
Two girls wind around each other, sky blue and black. They are sun and moon. For a moment, Moon presses perfect porcelain lips to Sun's softly smiling mouth. The spectators cheer. She turns away, a blush rising behind her own mask.
Mocking laughter rings through her head.
She finds her master and the other seamstresses gathered by one of the fires. Several of the girls have young men on their arms. The master is rosy with cheer. None of them recognise her. She lingers for a few moments. There is much she would like to say. Thanks she would like to give. But the letter full of lies she has left in her bedroom will have to suffice.
You should have kept moving. It was foolish to settle here.
"I don't care," she murmurs. "It was worth it."
Pah. When it's my turn...
"You've not much longer to wait."
She has a little money, but stallkeepers let her pass. She lays her fingers wonderingly on the glass of the goldfish bowl housing a five-inch mermaid, and feels a moment's stuttered horror at the headless lady.
The voice in her head whispers that these are tricks, but when the mechanism is explained to her, she finds it no less captivating in its cleverness.
She wends her way between lines of tents and stalls, into grass and bushes. She listens for a moment to the man with the coal-dark eyes who promises a living dreamworld, to the laughing lady with the viper's smile who asks for a drop of blood in return for eternal life.
The voice in her head whispers that these are not tricks, and she does not linger.
It is only as midnight draws close that she finds that certain tent. Its sides are black and white, its bright lanterns at the entrance dazzling the night-blind. She hesitates, and for once there are no words in her mind, and a soft touch as though of a hand on her hair.
When she steps into the silken shadows, a heaviness comes over her with the smell of incense. The tent is as bright as day, and all around her are masks, face upon face. They are beautiful and their eyes are empty.
The man in the tent looks up at her and smiles, the smile of one who recognises his own. He does not speak. He beckons.
She feels herself drawn in, shucking off skin and bone, becoming a small thing of air and stars, a wisp of self.
Goodbye, she says.
"Goodbye," comes from the lips that are no longer hers.
Reaching behind her head, she loosens the ribbons with a single, deft pull. Moon-pale skin, and wide, soft eyes gaze back at her. She runs a thumb over the round cheek, remembers it touched by a lock of golden hair.
"Ah, yes," says the man, smiling. "I always did like you. I wonder why that little milk-sop chose you?"
"She had exquisite taste," she says, hands smoothing for a moment over the dress that doesn't quite fit now. "And I suppose it's my turn now?"
He says nothing, still smiling, and with a sweeping gesture steps aside so that she can see all the masks. She glances at the mirror, at her own dusky skin, bright emerald eyes, raven hair. For a moment, she considers...
"I would advise against it," says the mask seller.
"Oh, very well," she sighs.
She looks at the mask in her hand, the familiar face – companion, sister, teacher, friend. But there are rules.
She lays the pale face down on cloth, and after a little consideration, takes up one with ebony skin and the hint of secrets around the serious mouth. Her fingers brush smooth porcelain, and in the back of her mind, something unfolds, bright, frail and curious.
Do you choose me?
"Yes."
Is this life?
"No," she replies, "just gestation. But I'll teach you what you need, and when I've had my year, you will live."
She turns and steps out into the whirl of Carnival. The feather-soft silk of her dress dances against the back of her knees, and she smiles.
It is a hard thing to know that tonight you will live.
the end
It is a hard thing to know that tonight you will die.
She hesitates at the city gates, one hand on the cool stone of the milepost, bare toes tickled by the warm evening breeze. The lights amid the trees are like a crowd of stars come to earth. She can hear the laughter and the shouts, the creaking of mechanisms, and the music.
Beneath the mask, underneath the painted smile, she bites her lip and tastes regret mixed with excitement. She then steps out of the city for the last time.
The silk is so soft in her hands that she almost can't feel it. So soft, it's like air on naked skin. It seems a pity to cut it, to stitch it, to mar its perfection.
Do you really want to walk through the town wearing nothing but an artfully draped piece of cloth?
"No, I suppose not."
She holds the cloth out at arm's length, studying it, imagining it cut and sewn and shaped. She toys with the image of a gown: elegant lines, a hem that just brushes the earth.
For Carnival? For dancing in the grove? I think not. Besides, it wouldn't suit me.
"No," she says a second time, wistful, "I suppose not."
A week before, as the summer moon is waxing, she sits under the attic window stitching feverishly. She has had barely a moment to work on it with her days full of commissions. Her master is kind, but cannot be expected to sacrifice business for his servants' luxuries. Especially when it is her needle skills, her discerning eye, that have brought him such a glut of new patrons.
Word has got around. The bolt of fine silk is from a wealthy gentleman. He hopes to see her wearing it at Carnival. Presumably he hopes also to assist in its eventual removal. She would not have accepted it, but she was overruled.
It sets off your skin and my hair. Let him make a fool of himself.
She has ruined it: cut it to shreds, strewn it around the tiny room like forgotten party streamers. Now she must reassemble it, turn the wreck into the dress she sees in her mind's eye.
Rather you than me.
Carnival has already begun, and she is in her attic room, stitching in the last painstaking details. It is a living thing, crafted in three dimensions by her needle and thread. When the last stitch is complete, she shakes it out.
As striking as a magpie's wing. As graceful as a swan's neck. As troublesome as a Frenchman with wine in him. I'll never get those ribbons undone.
The silk slips easily over her head, embracing her body. She reaches behind her and pulls the ribbons tight with a smooth, practised motion. The skirt floats and twirls about her knees. She steps into the delicate sandals she could barely afford, brushes her hair until it shines, and twirls, just once. Only then does she glance into the pitted mirror, running a critical gaze over the gown.
Hurry up!
She kneels by her narrow bed and drags out a wooden box. She opens it slowly, careful not to get dust on her dress. Her hands shake just a little.
The mask is as she remembers. Beneath her fingers, the smooth surface feels soft as skin, though cold as marble. The exquisitely shaped eyes, that tilt up just a little, are dark. The lips are full and deep red. They seem about to part on a word or a laugh.
She lifts it up, turns it briefly in her hands, a little afraid, but exhilarated. She runs her thumbs over the high cheekbones, the glitter a tiny roughness.
In her mind, there is a breathless silence.
She lifts the mask, fits it to her face, and ties the ribbons.
It is a hard to know that you will die tonight, but right now she feels alive. The dress flutters about her knees, too short for a lady of quality. She attracts gazes, and they can't decide whether they despise or desire her. For some, it's both.
There is smoke in the air – the acrid gunpowder of fireworks, bitter wood of bonfires – and beneath it are the scents of a thousand foreign foods. The music is a battle of sound, an indistinguishable medley. People cram together and split apart like clouds on a windy day. The sky is dusky with smoke, and the stars peer through like curious children. Some are sitting and eating, but most are occupied with sideshows, the wonders and magic laid out beneath the lantern-crowned trees.
There are dancers – over there.
Two girls wind around each other, sky blue and black. They are sun and moon. For a moment, Moon presses perfect porcelain lips to Sun's softly smiling mouth. The spectators cheer. She turns away, a blush rising behind her own mask.
Mocking laughter rings through her head.
She finds her master and the other seamstresses gathered by one of the fires. Several of the girls have young men on their arms. The master is rosy with cheer. None of them recognise her. She lingers for a few moments. There is much she would like to say. Thanks she would like to give. But the letter full of lies she has left in her bedroom will have to suffice.
You should have kept moving. It was foolish to settle here.
"I don't care," she murmurs. "It was worth it."
Pah. When it's my turn...
"You've not much longer to wait."
She has a little money, but stallkeepers let her pass. She lays her fingers wonderingly on the glass of the goldfish bowl housing a five-inch mermaid, and feels a moment's stuttered horror at the headless lady.
The voice in her head whispers that these are tricks, but when the mechanism is explained to her, she finds it no less captivating in its cleverness.
She wends her way between lines of tents and stalls, into grass and bushes. She listens for a moment to the man with the coal-dark eyes who promises a living dreamworld, to the laughing lady with the viper's smile who asks for a drop of blood in return for eternal life.
The voice in her head whispers that these are not tricks, and she does not linger.
It is only as midnight draws close that she finds that certain tent. Its sides are black and white, its bright lanterns at the entrance dazzling the night-blind. She hesitates, and for once there are no words in her mind, and a soft touch as though of a hand on her hair.
When she steps into the silken shadows, a heaviness comes over her with the smell of incense. The tent is as bright as day, and all around her are masks, face upon face. They are beautiful and their eyes are empty.
The man in the tent looks up at her and smiles, the smile of one who recognises his own. He does not speak. He beckons.
She feels herself drawn in, shucking off skin and bone, becoming a small thing of air and stars, a wisp of self.
Goodbye, she says.
"Goodbye," comes from the lips that are no longer hers.
Reaching behind her head, she loosens the ribbons with a single, deft pull. Moon-pale skin, and wide, soft eyes gaze back at her. She runs a thumb over the round cheek, remembers it touched by a lock of golden hair.
"Ah, yes," says the man, smiling. "I always did like you. I wonder why that little milk-sop chose you?"
"She had exquisite taste," she says, hands smoothing for a moment over the dress that doesn't quite fit now. "And I suppose it's my turn now?"
He says nothing, still smiling, and with a sweeping gesture steps aside so that she can see all the masks. She glances at the mirror, at her own dusky skin, bright emerald eyes, raven hair. For a moment, she considers...
"I would advise against it," says the mask seller.
"Oh, very well," she sighs.
She looks at the mask in her hand, the familiar face – companion, sister, teacher, friend. But there are rules.
She lays the pale face down on cloth, and after a little consideration, takes up one with ebony skin and the hint of secrets around the serious mouth. Her fingers brush smooth porcelain, and in the back of her mind, something unfolds, bright, frail and curious.
Do you choose me?
"Yes."
Is this life?
"No," she replies, "just gestation. But I'll teach you what you need, and when I've had my year, you will live."
She turns and steps out into the whirl of Carnival. The feather-soft silk of her dress dances against the back of her knees, and she smiles.
It is a hard thing to know that tonight you will live.
the end
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