Smoke and Mirrors

The small theater was slowly filling up. Men scratched at uncomfortable suits, while women adjusted and readjusted their old, worn dresses. The Common Folk of the Porter district had a severe case of shifty eyes, and fidgeting like pigeons as they shuffled down the aisles. Slowly, timidly, they took their seats, muttering nary a word. The Fathoms Theater seemed to be covered in a haze of gray and dirty water. It smelled of a strange beverage, that you can’t quiet name, but remember the taste, which drifts to the back of your throat, and stays there. The men and women of the district huddled in their wooden chairs, situated around circular tables that were sparsely covered by thin, wispy fabric, and had a waxy candle in the middle, the light barely illuminating the faces of the patrons.

Above the Common Folk, two balconies were offset into the walls, which could accommodate four people each. The faded, red chairs were probably grand once, like the rest of the theater. But now they creaked, their leather cracked. Around, the paint was peeling, the walls were discolored, and anything that had been of value had either been sold or stolen years ago. Yet the Fathoms Theater had gained a strange popularity in a matter of weeks. The new show excited and awed the simple folks of the district, a change from the “magic tricks,” and jugglers that usually graced the dark stage.

In one of the balconies two gentlemen sat comfortably. One looked causal in dark pants, a green vest, and a white shirt rolled to his sleeves. His brown eyes were wide with childlike excitement, their soft gaze never leaving the stage.

         “Isn’t this exciting, Dawson?” he asked his companion brightly. “I’ve heard of this woman; real talent, she is!”

Dawson wore a dark suit, complete with a hat. Steely gray eyes shifted around the theater with indifference. A gloved hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver pocket watch. His whole air seemed out of place in the shoddy theater.

“Should be starting soon…” Dawson noted.

“Excellent!”

“Hector,” Dawson said delicately. “Are you sure about this? I’d hate to have another…incident happen.”

“I can understand your caution, my friend,” Hector said mildly, scratching his chin. “But I trust my sources,” he leaned forward as a hush fell over the crowd below. “This is no smoke and mirror trick.”

Both men looked at each other, before returning their gaze to the stage. There stood its propitiator George Fathoms was a seedy-looking man, with beady eyes that bore into your soul, or rather, your pockets. There was a faded quality to him, much like his theater. His suit was decaying, while his skin seemed paler, translucent, in the stage lights. But, one thing about George Fathoms would never change; his voice.

“Welcome!” he bellowed, a sound akin to three tubas being played at once. “To the Fathoms Theater; I am George Fathoms and I-”

“Get on with it George!” someone shrieked from the audience.

“Yeah, we al’ready knows’ya!”

“C’mon, n’ brin’ ou’ the g’rl!”

Fathoms’ face contorted into as scowl as he crossed his arms. Beady eyes gleamed as he stared down those who had interrupted his announcement; a venomous silence fell upon the peanut gallery. Hector laughed quietly.

“As I was sayin’,” Fathoms growled. “I own this here theater, and I’m proud to announce my newest talent. She’s from a band of traveling gypsies, who’d use their talents to steal from their victims!” George moved his fingers ominously. “She has the power to both twist and inspire your soul…”

The hush over the audience was unsettling. In the balcony, Hector bounced up and down in his seat, growing either impatient or more eager. Dawson remained calm, slipping the watch back into his pocket and sitting up a bit.

“Her name is Roxanne DeVoli!” Fathoms thundered. “And she is the Wraith Player!”

A roar of applause rose up from the crowd as George Fathoms exited stage left. Another uncomfortable silence followed as expectant eyes stared at the dark, empty stage. A collective sharp intake of breath was taken as a smoky figure came into view. The quick, prickly “clack” of her shoes on wood reverberated through the silent theater. Roxanne DeVoli stopped a good distance from the audience, so her appearance was still shaded in darkness, yet small details could be seen by the crowd. Her hair was long and wild, jagged curls traveled down her face and shoulders. Her dress was made up of grays and browns, with several faded sashes tied loosely around her waist. In one hand, she held a beaten, old violin, in the other, the bow. A hardened gaze settled onto the audience.

With fluent and out of place elegance, Roxanne slid the violin onto her shoulder and beneath her chin. Closing her eyes, she positioned the box above the strings, not touching them. The room waited. The world waited. Then, slowly, Roxanne slid the bow down the strings, creating a rich, deep, haunting note, drifting through the air, infecting the audience, making them shiver in anticipation. The candle lights flickered as the bow was carried up the strings with rabid motion, summoning notes that played and pricked the listeners’ ears, stirring their hearts and minds. Roxanne’s body moved with each turn of the bow, each new tone, the rhythm an ever-changing organism, shifting and reacting. A repeated melody coursed through the dark theater, moving the walls and unsettling the dust. The audience felt afraid, unsure as to why, and only aware of the violin. Then, it stopped. An abrupt note ended the alluring sounds, hanging stiffly in the air. This sudden end seemed to snuff out the candles, collapsing the theater into darkness.

The audience waited, unsure if it was the end. Their bones shivered, pining for something, for solidity. A sickly fog seemed to hang in the air. Something was indeed amiss…

“Hector…” Dawson whispered.

“Shh…” Hector responded, waving off his partner. “Watch…”

In the shadows, Roxanne raised her bow to her violin and turned the world blue. With another deep, rich note, the candles blazed back to life with sapphire brilliance. Yet the audience dared not look anywhere but at the stage, watching the peculiar woman play. With each stroke, the theater seemed to distort, the shadows in the corners moving, taking shape, human shape. Dust from the floor had formed a bizarre, smoke, which was dyed blue and moved with abstract, almost jerky motions. Within the blue dust, too, did human forms take shape.

Gracefully, Roxanne played a high note, which seemed to pull these strange shapes out of the darkness and into the view of the gallery. The audience watched in awed silence as the strange beings glided through the air, their torn, old clothes moving both like wings and fins. They moved with ease, swooping down and up like birds. They swam around the audience, moving only their limbs noiselessly. The crowd was only faintly aware of where they were, concerned with the feeling of familiarity in the forms, and the soothing sound of the violin.

However, as soon as the strange phenomena had started, it ended. As the voice of the violin eased, the shapes dissolved, returning to their original places in the shadows. Some became vapor, while others disappeared in a blink, leaving nothing behind. The instrument’s tone had grown tired as Roxanne’s figure on stage. The blue candles slowly became crimson once more, bathing the theater in foreign brightness. Slowly, softly, the violin’s harmony ended, and reality was restored.

The audience felt light headed, uneasy, focusing only on what was ahead of them. Onstage, a weary Roxanne DeVoli bowed, before turning, and trudging offstage. As she left, a break of immense applause sounded from the seats, shaking the very foundation of the theater. Up in the balcony, the two gentlemen looked at one another once again. Hector smiled, a gold tooth grinning from his back molars.

“Well, Jack, what do you think?”

Jack Dawson was silent, his impassive eyes moving to the stage, then back to Hector’s expectant face. An odd smile twisted onto his face, “No smoke and mirrors.”