Circus of Silence

The Delay

~*~

Telling her no, you turn to go

but a cold wind starts to blow

You're thrown back on your rear

a thousand and one voices penetrate your ear

and the loudest one is Hecate's.

~*~

            Music was mockery. Every noise: teasing torment and Whisper the Silent Girl had grown to resent it. A voice was power- and Whisper had none. It was song and voice that kept the Marquee at bay. That now threatened to winnow Whisper away from this hall of smoke and mist and mirrors.

From her brother, who's pale, freckled face brought her to tears.

This tent was new to her. Fifty years and the Witch knew how many days, and the Silent Girl's surroundings still stumped her. She hadn't visited all the tents- hadn't learned what drew in all those ladies and gents. The Witch's magic spawned new attractions every move and she left the old ones to gather moss. Whisper had never felt like she was at a loss...

She didn't want to leave. For once, Whisper didn't want to leave. The Circus Everlasting had other plans. Rosalind Maybrush had found her voice. Had robbed her of all other choice.

Her arms went first. Her arms, that were wrapped around la beau bête, as the circus flyers called him. The handsome beast that was really her little boy- and had been for fifty nine long years. Her hands sliced smoke and pressed into the cold, hard ground to pull her up. Her arms and legs went along with the act- dancing to the song she hated second-most. The song of Whisper. Her song of control. Along with the songs of every other performer.

Except for the ones who walked in skins that were not their own.

The song spared 'Stripes'- whose song was specialized, but he walked with her anyway, leaving the last dregs of his humanity alone. As soon as they got too far out of range, the boy in the mirror disappeared- just as Whisper had feared.

~*~

            The Witch waited, walking wilfully around the Carousel with the Marquee on her tail. Only Harrison held back. When Whisper's legs approached for her, he offered a small, rueful smile.

"It's really not hard to figure out, is it?" He indicated the ravaged ride with a wave of his hand, shaking his head softly. 

Whisper still wasn't used to the idea of having Harrison in her head, hearing thoughts that had been private these last fifty years, but he was right. She couldn't fathom why Rosalind was still looking for a problem other than the one that had been laid so clearly out in front of them.

Harrison, of course, picked up on her confusion. "She thinks its to obvious, that the dilapidated exterior is only an illusion."

Whisper raised an eyebrow.

"You know when you're unhealthy, you might look pale, or have dark circles under your eyes?"

As soon as that last word had come out of his mouth, the boy jumped back, rubbing his head. She must have sent a mental flare up with her annoyance at that statement. As an Other, Whisper was essentially immortal. She didn't age. She never got sick or stiff, but that comment had her quick to miff. Since she'd joined the Marquee half a century ago, she'd been pale and gaunt and she'd had dark circles under her eyes just like Harrison had said.