Burying the Shadow (13 page)

‘Not for the
children, please, Aggie!’

Liviana took
the flask and swigged, making a great show of coughing and
groaning. I sipped more sparingly, and the fire of it gripped my
throat and belly, merely fuelling the heady euphoria I felt. This
was life. This: not the lazy, ritual-strung routines of Taparak.
There was no occasion at home when I could ever feel like this.
Tappish celebrations were laid-back affairs in comparison, loose
and carefree, devoid of tension, but it was the tension that made
the heart sing, that kindled the feverish need to experience, and
taste and taste, until the tongue was numb.
Take me,
Sacramante
, I thought, eyes closed.
I am yours.

The coliseum was a
blaze of light when we reached it, and against this radiance moved
the ravishing figures of the Sacramantan
beau monde
.
Carriages jostled for position by the main doors, spilling cargoes
of twittering socialites, who dripped with ropes of jewels and
pearls, and were muffled in rich stoles of fur and feathers that
glittered with marcasite sequins. A group of musicians played on a
patio outside the foyer, and a young, female dancer stamped and
spun before them, in a froth of crimson skirts. Her bare toes
seized bright coins off the petal-strewn paving stones, coins that
the crowd had flung to her. Without pausing in the dance for a
moment, she flicked the coins into a shallow metal bowl behind
her.

Artisans were
present in droves. They had a curious inbred look; all very tall
and attenuated, their ice-white features delicate and aristocratic.
Sometimes, it was difficult to tell which of them were men and
which were women. Their clothes were exquisite; plain and
classical, their jewellery discreet and simple. Those who weren’t
artisans looked gaudy beside them. Livvy pointed out the most
famous, and spoke the wonderful words of their family names: Sarim,
Tartaruchi, Metatronim, Kalkydra. It seemed that artistic vocation
was hereditary in Sacramante. I commented on this to Livvy. She
smiled at me in a distinctly secretive way. Sacramantans were like
that; secretive, and it seemed the secrets were of the most
delicious kind.

‘Surely,
creativity is hereditary
everywhere
, Rayo, dear,’ she said
and, taking hold of my elbow, swept me into the crowd.

The play was
called The Thorn Path, and had been written by an artisan of the
Tartaruchi dynasty, a man named Avirzah’e. ‘It is supposedly a
controversial piece,’ Liviana said to me, as we took our places in
the Tricante balcony. I was craning over the rail, gawping at
everyone, and Livvy had to pull me back to my seat, so her parents
could sit down. She handed me a programme of the event, printed in
dead black ink on tissue-thin paper. Of the Tricante youngsters,
only Agnestia and the cousins were privileged to have places on the
front row of the balcony; Zimon and Almero came to sit with Livvy
and myself behind.

Zimon squeezed
down beside me and pointed to my programme. ‘It is lucky you are
here for this; it will be outstanding!’ he said. ’The principal
lady is Gimel Metatronim, and the sets are designed by her brother,
Beth. Both are gifted with genius.’

Agnestia had
overheard his remarks and turned round in her seat. ‘I, for one, am
interested in this production for the simple fact that it is a
Metatronim and Tartaruchi connivance,’ she said. ‘It is no secret
there has been harshness between the two families.’

‘Frosh!’ Zimon
declared. ‘You’re too full of intrigue, Aggie. The artisans are not
swayed by the same base passions as ourselves.’

‘You talk as
if they are a different race entirely!’ I said, voicing a thought
that had been in my head since I had met Hadith Sarim. Neither of
the Tricantes deigned to follow up my observation.

The house
lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. Musicians began to
play the overture. The stage was a raised circular dais, far below,
covered in humped, indistinct shapes. As the stage lamps were
turned up, these shapes were revealed to be pieces of scenery;
minimal, mere suggestions of forms. To me, they became a rocky
land, devoid of moisture. As the music soared up into the theatre,
a figure uncurled on the stage - it had looked just like a rock a
moment before - and expanded ragged wings. The music fell in volume
to a mere sobbing. On the stage, the figure dipped and swayed in
birdlike fashion, accompanied only by a mournful fluted tune. I
thought it would be too dark to read my programme, but the white
page gleamed like phosphorescence, its black lettering as dark as
if it had been burned right into it. ‘The soul, set free’ it said,
in description of this first vignette. This confused me. Surely a
freed soul could only be joyful and wild; this was a being filled
with anxiety and dread. Presently, the figure jumped into the air
and disappeared, presumably through one of the tunnel entrances
that flanked the stage. Then there was a dreadful sound; not a cry,
but a lamenting sigh. A woman appeared, clambering over the rough
terrain, pushing her hair from her eyes, where it hung in damp,
lank tresses. Her dress was torn, her body contorted as if wracked
by terrible pain.

‘Gimel!’ Zimon
hissed in my ear.

I had begun to
feel unaccountably sick. There was something too realistic in this
performance, a promise of horror. I didn’t want to watch it
anymore; I was sure it was going to distress me. It was like some
soulscape terror being brought into reality, with no escape or
return to normal awareness. My mother was sitting on the front row
of the balcony among the older Tricantes; unreachable. Zimon was
entranced, watching his heroine. The actress tottered to a stand.
This was a person starving to death; emaciated and haggard. She
stumbled, and the crowd drew in its breath.

‘I am hungry!’
she cried, and it sounded as if the words cut her throat like
knives. She was bloodless; just a dry thing. I leaned towards
Liviana.

‘This is
horrible!’ I said, and just the act of whispering seemed to break
the appalling spell somewhat.

‘Ssh!’ Liviana
admonished. ‘Don’t you like it?’

I
shrugged.

‘She is one of
the best,’ Liviana hissed. ‘Just watch. It’s only a play.’

I was not
convinced of that. Still, it was unlikely the poor woman would
starve herself into such a condition just for the sake of her
acting. It was obviously makeup and lighting that made her appear
that way. Partly comforted, I leaned back in my seat and took a few
deep breaths, telling myself to be calm, and not so stupid. It was
a play, and a great play; never again might I enjoy this privilege.
Then the actress began to scream, and I closed my eyes.

By the
interval, I felt as if I had suffered some terrible trauma. We had
sat for an hour, tortured by the sight of this demented female
encountering, on her lone quest for her departed soul, all manner
of peculiar hallucinations. She was devoured alive, burned,
drowned, chased by hideous demons, which caught and raped her -
although any graphic detail of this scene was hidden by a melee of
cavorting actors, caparisoned in spikes and insect plates. I was
not sure if I could bear to endure any more and clapped in grateful
relief, more than appreciation, when the stage lights dimmed and
the houselights flared up.

‘The artisans
are not receiving during the interval,’ Almero said, consulting his
programme.

Liviana pouted
in disappointment. ‘Why ever not?’

Agnestia
turned round. ‘I told you; it’s because of bad blood. I’d stake my
life on it!’

‘Don’t be
ridiculous,’ Cousin Voile said, in a supercilious voice. ‘Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi made it known weeks ago the interval would be of short
duration. The production is intense; he does not want any of us to
lose the feel of it by socialising and gossiping! There’ll be
plenty of time for that later.’

Liviana went
off with Almero to fetch us something to eat and drink, from the
cordial-vendors downstairs. I could only slump exhausted in my
seat, smiling inanely at Zimon’s chatter.

‘Such talent!’
he said. ‘My, what I’d give to be one of Gimel Metatronim’s
patrons.’ He pulled a face. ‘Still, we have Hadith.’

‘Wasn’t she
supposed to be in this play?’ I asked, wondering how on earth the
scene she had described to us could be incorporated into such
horror.

Zimon nodded.
‘Yes. In the second half.’ He laughed. ’When it all gets damned
jolly, I suppose.’

‘Will it do
that?’ I could not dare to hope.

Zimon
grimaced. ‘Probably. Not even a Tartaruch could keep this up for a
whole evening. We are simple folk, us Sacramantans. We need hope as
well as despair for a good night out.’

‘Nothing
simple in that!’ I replied earnestly.

Livvy came
back with clay cups of citrus drink and a bag of buns in crystal
honey. Once I had eaten, I began to feel better. ’You looked quite
green!’ Livvy said, grinning. ‘I suppose we’re used to this sort of
thing, living here. The artisans like to make us work for our
entertainment.’

I resented the
implications in her comment, as if I was some untutored, uncultured
rustic thing without refinement or the ability to appreciate
art.

The second act
was, as Zimon had anticipated, far lighter in comparison. The
actress found an ally who could help her net her wayward soul and
she travelled to a ruined city, where Hadith, as the breeze, sang
sweet melodies that wooed the soul to earth. Reunited, the actress
and her soul confronted the demon prince, who lived beneath the
city, and exacted a revenge for the rape by his lesser imps. This
was not the gory unpleasantness I feared, but a titillating
seduction scene, during which the actress made the demon fall in
love with her. As they embraced, the whole scene exploded into
activity; shapes that had symbolised masonry and half-fallen
buildings magically transformed into leaping figures, whose flesh
was painted with luminous pigment. The finale was a burst of
firecrackers, crashing symbols and the actress with her heel upon
the groin of the demon prince. The lights swept down to blackness
and the whole arena was on its feet, yelling and clapping. I had
lapsed into a kind of daze, still not over the testing first half,
and had to be dragged up by Liviana, who shrieked and jumped up and
down at my side.

All the
company appeared on stage and bowed to their hysterical audience.
Liviana grabbed my arm. ‘Come on!’ she cried. ‘We must get to the
salon quickly!’

‘Why?’

She did not
answer.

Zimon was
pushing me along the row of seats, urging me to move. We surged out
of the balcony into a milling crowd, where I stumbled over feet and
trod on people’s gowns, my arm in the merciless grip of
Liviana.

‘
Come
on
!’ she cried over her shoulder.

Swimming
through a tide of people, I was beached by the tireless Liviana in
a large chamber, reached by a curving flight of stairs. Here, a
host of people had already gathered, causing me to wonder just how
many had slipped out before the end of the performance to guarantee
themselves a prominent place in this room. Servitors in costumes of
stiff black feathers, wearing feathered masks sewn with jewelled
sequins, glided among the crowd, dispensing various refreshments.
It was here that the celebrated company of artisans would gather
for the edification of, and adoration by, their audience, although
only patrons and their guests were allowed into this reception.
Already an atmosphere of anticipation, rivalling that of before the
play, was intensifying. I felt disorientated, pushed this way and
that by eager people, all talking loudly and flashing their finery.
My mother was nowhere to be seen and Liviana was too busy cooing,
and fluttering her eyelashes at any passing male, to notice my
discomfort. To steady my nerves, and appear as if I was at ease, I
sipped continually from the glass that Liviana had thrust into my
hands. Someone offered me a pipe; I sucked smoke, and a giddy
feeling, as of a stormy wave crashing in my head, overwhelmed any
unpleasant sensations caused by my coughing fit. Within a very
short space of time, I had to lean against the wall for support;
the ground beneath my feet swaying as if I was on a boat. In fact,
it was more comforting to imagine that I was.

Liviana pushed
back through the crowd, having left me alone for a few moments.
‘The actors!’ she exclaimed in triumph. ’Come on, Rayo, come and
see.’ She attempted to prise me away from the wall.

‘I’ll watch
from here...’

My protest was
unheard. Suddenly I was lurching through indignant bodies, head
aswim.

Liviana
sighed, apparently oblivious to my condition. She pulled me against
her side. ‘Caspar Kalkydra!’ she breathed.

A group of
people had entered the room through a curtain further back. I
recognised Caspar as being the actor who had played the part of the
demon prince; his face was still daubed in gaudy makeup that, from
the distance of the balcony, had seemed so subtle. He had fierce
red hair, tied back in a scarf, and a face of flawless bony planes
and angles. Other, lesser actors, (sprites and imps), came in his
wake, preceding the more dramatic entrance of Hadith Sarim, who was
dressed casually in a belted, silk robe, bare-footed and with a
pale, scrubbed face. She floated to the Kalkydra’s side and linked
her arm through his, nodding graciously at their admirers. Then,
there was another flutter of interest as the great playwright
himself sauntered into the room. Avirzah’e Tartaruchi; a prince of
artisans. He was fearsome to look at; I saw a murderer’s soul, but
perhaps that was only artifice on his part. His pale skin had a
sallow tinge, causing him to stand out from his peers, and his
abundant dark hair was threaded with a hint of deepest red. His
mouth smiled in a lazy, sensual way, but his eyes were hooded and
watchful. What is it about beautiful, effeminate men that women
find so irresistible? To me, effeminacy seemed deceitful, or sly; I
would never trust such loveliness. Here, I was alone in such
feelings. The Sacramantans were virtually tearing the clothes from
each other’s backs to reach Avirzah’e. I found all the fawning
adoration rather sickening. Not even the most celebrated of our
scryers back in Taparak were treated to such sycophancy. This was,
perhaps, the dull side of Sacramante’s shiny coin; its glitter was
but surface deep. With this in mind, I perched myself upon some
elevated plateau of thought, looking down upon these eager fools
drooling over their tinsel heroes. I was above all this.
Miraculously, the smoke haze was beginning to seep out from the
corners of my mind, leaving a sparkling clarity in its wake. I felt
incredibly tall, and steady too. It was time to disengage myself
from Liviana and seek my mother. She must also be finding this
hysterical worshipping ridiculous.