Fire and Ice: by Aisling Brennan
“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice,
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire...”
(Robert Frost)
The shadow of the big-top loomed out against the midnight sky.
Ominous. Macabre. Yet inviting.
It’s black roof of canvas and spiralling flags stretched out into the night air, looking
like that of any grand cathedral or fairytale castle.
Only it wasn’t exactly princesses and saints that resided there.
The members of the infamous “Cirque de Lune” were regarded as madmen, witches
and thieves. Their wealthy, upper-class patrons flocked from far and wide to see their
shows but the residents of the small, dreary French town that the circus happened to
infringe upon avoided the place like the plague.
Because the Cirque was the home of those people.
The strange people.
The people who could eat fire without burning their insides, face wild animals and
emerge without a scratch, survive being sawn in half and walk thin wires without
falling from them...
They were different and feared. Had they sold their souls to Lucifer for immortality?
Were they really all escaped convicts from a mental asylum from across the sea?
The rumours were endless.
(But were they really all just rumours?)
“Cirque de Lune?” the locals often sneered. “Cirque de Lunatic more like...”
However, our story does not concern those townsfolk at all. Our story begins with a
certain fire-eater, who was a performer at the Cirque, going by the name of
“Fawkesy”.
And right now, that fire-eater was running through the streets of the town, her feet
pounding against the cobbled pavement and her heart throbbing against her trembling
rib-cage.
“Damned thief,” she muttered under her breath when she realised her target had
managed to outrun her once more. “I am not a bloody constable...”
Fawkesy silently prayed that she wouldn’t run into a constable at this hour. Not only
was she breaking curfew but the deviant members of the Cirque were less than
welcomed in the village, particularly after daylight-hours.
Normally, she wouldn’t have agreed to come near the town at this hour. But this time
it was different.
The irony of the situation was hilarious; circus-people were always the ones branded
thieves, yet this particular time it had been a townsman- a patron that evening-who
had stolen from them.
Fawkesy’s eyes remained sharply focused on the shadowy figure running ahead of
her. Truthfully she did not know why the stolen trinket was so important- only that
Ringmaster needed it back as soon as possible.
And when the beloved Ringmaster asked something of you, you didn’t argue.
Ever.
The thief moved like a phantom between the narrow streets, seeming to pass in and
out of the shadows as if they were part of his body, finally disappearing through the
doors of a church.
She followed him in a sprint, her lungs burning.
Her hands grabbed the wrought iron rings of the church door.
The warm, musty-smelling air of the church’s innards was the first thing to strike her
as she walked inside, each footstep echoing against the tiles.
And there the thief stood, shamelessly leaning upon the altar, the stained glass giving
him a cloak of silver and the dim light of the moon outside painting his skin a with a
icy glow.
He lazily lifted his eyes to survey her and for the first time, she noticed their piercing
blue hue.
Fawkesy had spent her entire life being stared at as part of a show...but this was truly
the first time she’d ever stared at someone else, her own grey eyes not leaving his as
she started up the aisle.
There was something so cold about his gaze.
So glacial.
So malicious.
So handsome?
She banished that thought to the furthest corners of her mind and finally forced herself
to speak, her voice shattering the silence like a gavel.
“You’ve nowhere left to run, thief. Now give to me, what you’ve stolen.”
His lips stretched into a Cheshire cat’s grin and he replied almost lazily. “And
suppose I claim sanctuary?”
Fawkesy stepped up to the altar, folding her arms and giving him a defiant glare.
“Suppose I do not care? God’s house was not built to protect criminals...”
He snorted, mirthfully. “You speak rather boldly for a woman!”
“And you behave rather childishly for a man. Return to me what you have stolen.”
He laughed again and this time, Fawkesy felt a shiver rocket up her spine.
“Ah, not yet. First, introductions.” His voice had become mellifluous and suave. “My
name is Cesario. Comment tout appelle, ma chere?”
“They call me Fawkesy.”
She made a sudden grab for his jacket but he dodged her hand, still smirking.
“Ah yes! Fawkesy...I remember you from the show...your fire-eating is quite
impressive. I daresay you were my favourite act...are you perhaps named after Guy
Fawkes? The English traitor?”
She made a second swipe at Cesario, getting closer. “The only man to ever enter the
British Parliament with honest intentions...” Fawkesy swallowed back against her
blistered throat and smirked dryly. “From a certain point of view... a plotter...” She
slowly walked around to face him, so that their eyes were level- a stony grey meeting
an icy blue. “...from another, a hero.”
“Are you a plotter, Fawkesy? After all, one who shares their soul with any daemon*,
must be quite a character.”
“Qu’est ce que vous avez dit?” Her eyes narrowed, her breath catching in her throat.
“You heard me. I know all about the Cirque, your contracts with the daemoncircles...even things about your dear Ringmaster that would make your skin crawl...”
His eyes burned a brighter azure. “For example...” His hand drew a golden pocketwatch from his coat pocket. “...why he wants this back, so badly.”
She growled under breath, feeling the rage burn in her chest. “You know nothing of
us...and personally, I do not care whether you give that to me now or I have to pluck it
from your charred corpse...which will it be?”
He laughed icily. “My, my...don’t we have a temper, circus girl? Scared that I might
know Ringmaster better than you?”
That did it.
Suddenly Fawkesy’s eyes glowed a deep red and her fingers pulled a matchstick from
her pocket, holding it before her lips. “Flamarus...”
She gave a tiny blow.
A phoenix plume of ruby flames leapt from the tiny matchstick and engulfed Cesario
in a cloud of infernal heat. Fawkesy smirked as her guardian spirit’s magic took
effect, amplifying her
abilities.
She laughed.
How dare he challenge the Cirque? And with such lies?
After all, he was only a mere mortal...
But when the smoke cleared, Fawkesy felt the blood drain from her face.
There he stood, grinning.
Not a single burn or blister marked his pale skin...and for the first time, she sensed the
presence of a second daemon spirit.
Cesario chuckled, thrusting the gold pocket watch into her shaky grip.
“Very good, Fawkesy. We’ll meet again, soon.” He winked. “Until then...”
And with that, he vanished, in a single rush of chilling air.
Leaving her alone in the dark.
Fawkesy was trembling all over as her eyes swivelled down to the open pocket-watch
in her hands and the creased photograph inside.
Cesario and Ringmaster?
A coldness was suddenly coursing through her. A coldness that no flame could warm.
*Author’s Footnote: Used in this context, a “daemon” refers to a spirit of a nonhuman, (generally) non-threatening nature that resides in the human world. It is
believed that a human could share their soul with a daemon in order to obtain fantastic
powers and in return, give the daemon a human host to live in.