Elizabeth Hand - Winterlong

Beneath the scroll was a winking face, twice man-size, chipped silver headband upon its wooden brow, lips pursed to blow into a pair of great glass pipes. A frieze of tipsy letters spelled out ECHO ORPHEUS beneath the figure’s chin.

Another wave of cheering swept the room. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced down to see Anku crouched between my legs, staring moodily at a tiger swallowtail. When I looked up again I saw that someone had lifted a woman in white domino and black mask above the crowd. To rollicking cheers she clambered up the side of the calliope, clinging for support to bas-relief leaves and the backs of fantastically carven vehicles, until she swung her legs over the gaudy face of Orpheus and raised her arms triumphantly. Amid shrieks of laughter she pelted those below with flowers.

The electrocalliope bellowed so that my ears ached. I wondered how the woman could bear it. Still I found myself moving closer to the front of the crowd, staring at her. Anku slunk beside me. When he occasionally brushed against my leg I could feel him shuddering from the noise and smoke, and I let my fingers droop to touch him reassuringly.

We reached the edge of the melee. Behind us revelers cavorted in the ceaseless spray of smoke and flowers. Before us was the expanse of peach marble adrift in petals and quivering wings, surmounted by the ORPHEUS . A rowdy crowd of boys from Persia and my own House—with a pang I recognized Small Benedick and Small Thomas—had clambered onto the balcony abutting the machine. They waved their arms as if conducting the calliope. I stared enraptured at the metal mouth releasing puffs of hempen-scented steam that rose to sear clouds of moths. Only Anku remained unmoved, imploring me with soft urgent cries to move on.

The carnival anthem rolled to a finish. A rush of steam and cheers; then the first piping notes of “The Saint-Alaban’s Song.” Drunken voices began chanting. Beside me a tall Illyrian sank to her knees beside a Botanist. At their feet a girl with Saint-Alaban’s red ribbons braided through her hair plucked absently at their robes as she sang:

“O Saint-Alaban

We now must say goodbye

We’ve lost our hearts and lovers and must go—

we don’t know why …”

I pushed away Anku, tired of his insistent whining. I applauded with the rest as the boys from Miramar tossed a crown of lilies at the girl atop the ORPHEUS . To a volley of cheers she plucked a single scarlet blossom from the wreath of flowers. Setting the crown .firmly upon her head, she straightened. Then, surveying the crowd below, she searched for a deserving recipient among us. Laughing with the others, I waved and urged her To me! to me!, trying to catch her eye.

Abruptly her gaze fixed upon me. Other faces began turning to me, laughing that the game had reached this end. Between my feet Anku stirred, growling. He stared at the figure above us as she raised the red lily, then tugged her mask free of its braids and ribbons to reveal her face: dead white, pitted with blackened holes whence crept writhing threads of spiders. I stepped back, my eyes still riveted to her. Her hands had been chalked to hide the bloody grooves where she had prised free the lid of the sarcophagus. White powder flaked from the raw bruises on her arms. Ghostly moths lit upon her thighs with slowly beating wings. As I stared, she touched three fingers to her lips. Then with a grin she kissed each of the lily’s garnet blades and laughing tossed it from the pensive brow of the ORPHEUS : a poisonous shaft tumbling through the air, cleaving the tremulous wings of moths and grazing a half-dozen eager fingertips before it began to tumble toward its mark.

“To me, Raphael!”

A shriek as I staggered against the Botanist hugging my side. Something white and snarling whipped past me, tore at her sleeve so that a net of blood trammeled the falling blossom. In mid-air Anku seized the crimson lily, shearing the bright petals so that they swirled and shriveled into tattered shards. Red mist obscured my vision, clouded the faces of those fighting to restrain me as I tried to flee that horrible giggling figure with her bleeding legs splayed about a winking face.

The crowd suddenly gave way. I stumbled to a marble bench, clutched my head and wept.

“Raphael!”

I forced myself to look back. Atop the ECHO ORPHEUS the woman stood, shielding her eyes from the smoke as she scanned the hall, calling my name over and over as though her heart would break.

Not Francesca.

Ketura.

“No,” I whispered. Behind us, Paphians and Curators danced and sang as if there had been no rent in the shimmering fabric of their carnival marquee. Only the forlorn figure clinging to the ORPHEUS sought the ghost of Raphael Miramar at the Butterfly Ball.

“There is little time,” a voice said behind me. I started and glanced at Anku, terrified that this would begin my final plunge into madness, to hear my jackal familiar speak. But Anku stood alert, his tail switching as he stared at something behind me. I whirled to see a slight figure shadowed by another column. He was naked save for a wreath of ivy about his neck and a mask of leaves behind which his green eyes glowed.

“Your sister has awakened,” he said, and stepped into the light. Anku leaped toward him, to collapse whimpering at his feet. The Boy stooped to stroke the jackal’s throat.

“My sister is dead,” I stammered.

“She was asleep,” he said, and with a last flourish to Anku stood facing me. “As I was. As were you.”

“What do you want with me?” I whispered. Behind us the ball continued unabated.

“To bring the Final Ascension,” he said, laughing as though he had answered a simple riddle.

“But I am no Ascendant!” I pressed myself against the marble pillar as if its solid embrace might steady me. “I am a Paphian, a courtesan—we are whores and children!”

He made a swift cutting motion with his hand.

“Desire is my child; and cold Science,” he said. As he spoke his fingers moved in and out, in and out, as though choking an invisible enemy. “But her frigid heart will melt and your fever will rage to shake the stones from their buildings, Raphael Miramar.”

“I do not want such power,” I said, trembling.

“Power?” he repeated. “You have no power.”

“Then leave me in peace!” I cried. “I want nothing of your Ascension!”

At this foolish temper Anku stood whining. I lashed out at him, my foot grazing one silvery flank. The jackal only blinked and settled back onto his haunches, head cocked to regard me reproachfully.

“Ah, see, Anku,” said the Boy, raising his leg so that he stood on one foot like a dancer. “We are as flies to this wanton boy: he would kill us for his sport.” Then he laughed, and I looked away, frightened.

“Raphael!”

I turned to see Ketura scrambling from the ORPHEUS . A flash of shame burned me as her gaze held mine: neither blaming nor accusing, only asking how I could have betrayed our friendship by fleeing her. Then she dipped from sight and I ducked behind the column once more. A few meters away the Boy stood with his back to me. He faced a high archway which held as though fixed in pale amber the image of a jaguarondi, its teeth piercing a young inia. Beneath this frieze Anku lay with his muzzle resting upon his paws, watching his master.

Sudden resolution emboldened me. Glancing back to make certain I was not seen, I walked to the Boy, grabbed his shoulder, and wrenched him toward me as I demanded, “Come with me, then!”

“Where, cousin?” an indolent voice replied agreeably. He turned to me, slanted green eyes widening beneath a broad white brow and a feathered cap that hid his hair.

It was not he.

“Forgive me,” I stammered, dropping my hand. “I mistook you for another.”