And thus Caputo was able to peer beneath the deceit of the mask.
To see instead the arrogant walk of a young man.
To see that the dead had miraculously come to life.
To see standing there Forisimo.
*
Chapter 22
Cauda had seen no point in wearing a disguise.
She wanted to be recognised as she strode through the theatre’s corridors.
Many of the people she passed stopped, stared; hesitated as if wondering if they should rush over to greet her, as if worried that their greeting might be rebuffed.
And so they made do instead with a welcoming smile.
A relieved smile, in many cases.
It was well known that the impresario’s shows were no longer profitable.
When Guilfo heard from his men that Cauda had arrived to see him, he cordially invited her in.
‘You know you have nothing to offer me,’ he said sourly, glaring at her from over his desk.
‘And yet here I am, Guilfo,’ Cauda replied, knowing him well enough to recognise that the brightness of her tone alone would pique his curiosity.
‘You’re looking well,’ he offered, his irritated frown spoiling any attempted graciousness, ‘but as for your dance…?’
‘No better, I must admit, than it was,’ Cauda said, pouting dejectedly.
‘Then I fail to see what you might be hoping to achieve by your visit?’
‘Oh come now, Guilfo: why this persistence that you have the upper hand here? Do you think there’s anyone in this city who remains unaware that your performances are suffering from ever decreasing audiences?’
Guilfo shrugged, yet his firm grimace remained.
‘Your genius for dance deserted you just as mercilessly as my genius for putting on performances has abandoned me! I’m still failing, here, to see the reason for your visit! It’s surely not to gloat!’
Cauda intently peered across his desk at him.
And no, she wasn’t gloating.
Her stare was one of determination.
‘My dance, I must admit – simply lacks spirit,’ she confessed, adding with extra emphasis, ‘And only you, Guilfo, can help return it to me!’
It was Forisimo who had pointed this out to her.
Naturally, when he had first surprised her in his workshop, she had been furious with him, thinking she could only be the victim of some devious hoax he’d instigated.
‘My career’s ruined! All through worry of you!’ she had stormed through her angry weeping. ‘All for some cruel trick!’
‘It wasn’t a trick!’ he had insisted, taking her firmly in his arms to stop her flailing out at him, to reassure her that he still loved her. ‘I was hung that day!’
With his return, Cauda had begun to recover once more, even to the extent that she had begun to practise her dance moves once more.
But here her body, her mind, continued to fail her.
There was no flow to her moves.
It was only her love for Forisimo that had returned to her.
Not her love for dance.
‘You simply need to regain your sprit,’ Forisimo had declared adamantly one day as her efforts to launch herself into a sequence once again failed to stir her.
‘Hah, and just how easy is that?’ she’d demanded miserably.
‘The same way you developed it, of course!’ he had exclaimed. ‘By practising: by emulating the moves of the most accomplished dancers around.’
‘You have your old machine here?’ she’d asked hopefully, glancing everywhere about the workshop excitedly. ‘It might take a long time once again, but–’
‘No: not here,’ Forisimo admitted. ‘But I know where you can practise against images of the most gloriously natural dancer the world has ever seen…’
*
Apart from the one he’d loaned from Cauda, Forisimo only had the one disguise left.
It was the mask of Delfaris, the one he had discovered lying in the darkness of his hall. He couldn’t remember how it had got there; he thought he had thrown it away.
Luckily, however, it must have clung to his clothes without him knowing until he had re-entered his building. As he had attempted to light the lantern, it must have fallen to the floor.
This time, he didn’t need to put poor Delfaris into a trance; he simply took the ancient stagehand into his confidence, the old man being more than willing to take a few days away from work while Forisimo took on his role for him.
Guilfo’s men were no longer searching for Forisimo, after all.
He was dead, wasn’t he?
Ironically, the theatre guards were checking for men wearing disguises more rigorously than even before. But it was a taller man they were now looking for, a Master Caputo, creator of poisons: a purveyor of goods who lived on the Lane Without Name but Forisimo had not yet come across.
Guilfo had let it be known to the world that it was this Caputo who had been responsible for Cauda’s illness and brief yet sorely lamented withdrawal from the theatre. Now, thankfully, Cauda was well on the way to recovery, and would soon be taking to the stage once more.
Naturally, Forisimo couldn't be sure just how much of Guilfo’s explanation was true, but it certainly had the ring of truth. Cauda had told him how she’d been tricked into taking a medicine, one that the kitchen maid who’d given it to her now admitted had come from a man who had simply claimed to be a well-wisher.
And there could be no doubt that Cauda was rapidly recovering both her health and her skills.
She now moved flawlessly with the fluidly moving images that his machine cast upon the stage.
It was so strange seeing her dancing like this; the real Cauda dancing with and as a part of the image of Cauda. It was as if you could see her spirit, merging with her as she gracefully reeled and rushed across the stage.
At first, Cauda had struggled to keep up with the elegant leaps and spins and curls of her own image. It had been painful to witness her frustration, particularly the times she nearly gave up any hope of regaining her amazing talent, as she was once again left behind by the effortlessly perfect moves of the image.
But each time she felt this way, Forisimo’s contraption was brought to a halt: and the image was made to restart her dance.
Of course, the loyal old stagehand Delfaris had been the one who had volunteered to work the machine, despite it being a laborious and boring task to sit so high up in the darkness of the theatre. He was the one too, who would whisper encouragement to Cauda whenever she seemed to be at her lowest.
And soon, when Cauda danced with her ghostly companion, the two indelibly became one, such that there was no faintly hovering difference between them, even when the most complicated of moves were being performed.
Cauda was completely herself once more.
The old man Delfaris elatedly grinned.
Indeed, some say he almost leapt with joy, as if he were a young man once again.
*
Chapter 23
Caputo had heard of Cauda’s return to the stage.
He had heard, too, how the despicable Guilfo had painted him as the villain of the piece.
His business was in a sad, probably irrecoverable state, the people of the city having taken against him when they heard he was responsible for the attempted destruction of their Angel of Dance.
He had to see Cauda dance once more.
Yes, yes: of course, he did see her whenever she exited Forisimo’s workshop. She appeared to be living there now, despite her return to the theatre.
Why did she continue to live here?
Because of Forisimo, naturally.
She had recovered, thankfully; she had regained her love for everything, for her dance.
But she had also regained her love for Forisimo.
And Forisimo, it seemed, had somehow regained life.
How could such a thing be possible?
Because, of course, he had never been dead in the fir
st place.
He had survived his supposed execution.
For a man of Forisimo’s obvious talents, talents that had naturally gained him connections with the city’s rich and powerful – men, of course, who wouldn't want such useful talents denied them – it would be a relatively effortless thing to accomplish.
Naturally, such well-respected citizens couldn’t be seen to be freeing him.
But the knot of the noose would be one that wouldn’t break Forisimo’s neck as he plunged through the trapdoor.
A simple, secondary floor lying beneath the trapdoor would prevent him from falling too far.
The executioner would merely be executing the orders he’d been secretly given.
It was as if the whole of this accursed city had conspired to deny Caputo his love.
The pleasure of seeing Cauda fully recovered, her beauty and elegance entirely regained, had been transformed into the utmost agony by Forisimo’s survival.
It tortured Caputo endlessly, not just when he saw them together, but even more so when it was left to his own mind to imagine them together.
In his imagination, they were forever blissfully happy.
And he was forever miserable.
Ironically, he had to hand in his workshops the very implements that should have been capable of bringing his agony to an end at the simple tipping of a flask or glass to his lips.
Even a mere, tender touching of some powders could have freed any other man.
Or even just luxuriously breathing in the scents of a perfumed handkerchief.
Yet none worked on him, of course.
The only poison that worked on him was that of love.
And so yes, yes: he had to see her dance, to bathe once more in the effusion of her love.
He remembered the secret corridors that wove behind the walls of the theatre like darkly poisoned veins. No one stopped him once he was deep inside the theatre, everyone busy with their individual tasks as they prepared for the show.
He remembered, too, how Guilfo had had himself hoisted up into the area of darkness lying just below the theatre’s ceiling. He didn't expect the hoist to be there, yet he was pleasantly surprised to see that access to the framework holding the lanterns was much easier than he had ever imagined it would be.
There was even a large platform lying towards its very centre, one easily large enough to allow him to take up a relatively comfortable seating position.
Next to him was the very machine that Guilfo had set into motion to project the remarkable images of Cauda upon the stage.
It wasn’t lit, as was to be expected.
Yet it had all the appearance of many of the other elaborate lanterns surrounding him. Like them, it must contain an elaborate array of lenses, he reasoned.
Lenses that could bring Cauda up closer to him.
Moving his position a little, he peered through the rear of the lantern, sighing in disappointment when he was rewarded for his troubles with nothing but a strangely refracted view of the stage.
But then: hadn't this machine been sent to project images upon the stage?
Caputo briefly studied the machine, noting the system of levers along its sides. One lever was larger than all the rest.
Could that reverse the way the lenses operated?
He tentatively touched the lever.
It clicked forward into position.
*
Cauda felt that she was simply flowing out onto the stage.
It wasn't something of wood, of materials; it was of her.
A part of her, an extension of her that she also controlled.
It moved with her, at her command, such that anyone watching her was fooled into believing she was making the most impossible leaps, the most incredible turns.
She didn't dance within this scene, this stage, this theatre, nor even through it: it flowed, ever changing, about her, as the waters of a stream smoothly swell together as one.
She was liquid, as was everything surrounding her.
And yet she was also air, and also fire.
And the faster she moved, the more the water became freely undulating air.
For now she felt weightless, carried along on waves and surges of wind.
And the faster and faster she rippled from one sequence to another, the more she became fire.
Her heart aflame with joy.
Her body was a flaming desire.
A flame, dancing brightly across the stage.
Unstoppable.
Unquenchable.
*
The fire of love burned within Caputo’s eyes.
He could see Cauda so incredibly clearly through this remarkable complex of lenses.
He could almost touch her, she seemed so close.
His eyes blazed with desire.
It was the most blissful pain.
A burning pain that spread to deep within his heart.
And here the flames blazed, the Spirit of Dance leaping, twisting, turning.
His pain was abruptly greater than ever.
His heart was on fire.
He was consumed with desire.
*
Chapter 24
The evening had been a success beyond even Guilfo’s wildest imaginings.
Cauda’s fame was greater than ever, her worshipers in love with her more than ever.
He had never seen such a remarkable performance, even from her.
Even that strange sunburst of flame, erupting from the darkness high above everyone’s heads, had simply been accepted by the worshiping crowd as a part of the show, a pyrotechnic display worthy of the late, lamented Forisimo.
Naturally, Guilfo – being well aware that this was not the case – had sent Delfaris up onto the platform to check that nothing was amiss with the magical lantern. Apparently, there was a small pile of hot ashes lying by the machine, as if something up there had indeed spontaneously combusted: and yet, thankfully, nothing else there appeared to have suffered any damage.
Even so, Guilfo had had the contraption lowered and positioned within his own quarters once more.
He had no intention of using it again to project Cauda’s image upon the stage.
Not now he had the real Cauda back.
The real Spirit of Dance.
And yet he did have an important use for Forisimo’s marvellous machine.
Yes, Guilfo was far richer than Cauda; but unfortunately, he was only almost as famous as her.
Worst still – as even he was rational enough to realise – whereas the fame of someone like Cauda could live on long after her exit from the world, impresarios such as himself fared less well in this respect.
No matter how many portraits they had made of themselves, no matter how many glowing ‘histories’ they had written about them, the reasons for their success were always swiftly forgotten.
But he would live on.
More deliciously still, he would live forever thanks to Forisimo.
The machine would capture him as a moving, almost living being.
He flipped the levers that he knew controlled the capturing of images.
As the lenses and crystals gaily performed their waltz, as they settled into their appointed positions with satisfying clicks, he lit the new wick that had risen into place.
Then he moved to the small stage he had had laid out before the probing eye of the lantern.
He had his script, the words he had put together explaining how he had created the talent everyone knew as the Spirit – the Angel – of Dance.
As he spoke, Forisimo’s miraculous contraption began to absorb the essence of Guilfo.
It captured his spirit.
But a man like Guilfo, unlike a talent like Cauda, is ultimately a man of little true substance.
He has so remarkably little love to give.
So few emotions to draw upon.
And so at first it was just his voice that began to quake.
He began to feel weary.
Even, yes,
a little drained.
The flame, however, flickered excitedly, relishing the energies of love and emotion it was feeding upon; no matter how limited, how curiously finite, that energy was within this particularly poor specimen.
As Guilfo’s legs began to uncontrollably crumple beneath him, it at last dawned upon him how Forisimo’s machine worked.
He stepped down from his small stage, realising he had to douse the flame, to snuff it out quickly before he became little more than an empty shell.
But the eye, of course, followed him.
It took in his very last moves, greedily devoured his very last burst of emotion; his fear of inevitable death.
As the husk of Guilfo collapsed to the floor like a heap of unwanted clothing, the spirit of the flame merrily danced.
End
If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.
The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly
The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale
A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)
The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator
Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll’s Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666
P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque
Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)
Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent
Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak
Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife
Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland
The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas
Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl
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