Legerdemain

Anselme’s strong clear voice still echoed among the canvas and timbers of the main tent as he stood in the center ring, bowing low in response to the thundering applause of the crowds, his long feathery sleeves brushing the arena floor. His heart was racing with the adrenaline with which performers are often so familiar. In his head, he was counting the seconds until his cue to exit the stage, and mentally tracing the path behind him that would lead past the crowds into the cool night air. He knew the route with his eyes closed… which happened to be a vital point at the moment.

With a heart-stopping suddenness, every light in the tent winked out at once; the stagehands operating the lanterns unnoticed. Cries went up from the patrons in their seats: some men stood abruptly, some sat in patient dread, and several startled ladies swooned. A single lamp, focused upwards, illuminated the ringmaster in her perch high above the circus stage, the shadows casting a look of menace and mania to her narrow features. “Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice bellowed from the heavens, “do not be alarmed. When confronted with danger, one must remain stalwart.” A soft glow now began at the edges of the ring, casting a faint orange tint to the tent interior. As Colette continued, the flames became visible in their troughs around the giant cogwheel terraces, yellow tips dancing madly to and fro. “When faced with flames, the Vapeur remained unflinching. Here to showcase this bravado is a man of mystery and power, said to be possessed of Satan himself! May I present… Asmodeus Prodigious!”

Colette vanished into darkness as the lantern was extinguished. Music drifted into the tent, quietly at first, but gaining both volume and tempo. The flames around the stage had attained such ferocity as to shed a considerable light upon the floor of the tent. A man stood upon the center-most gear, but it was no longer Anselme. Fire reflected on gold buttons and braids, crossing purple leather in a dazzling pattern that seemed to come alive under the inferno’s spell. His arms rose slowly above his head and Asmodeus began to rise above the stage. Up and up he rose, ascending some 20 feet with the aid of the small, matte black balloon strapped to his back, the pilot light from the torches strapped to his arms giving it the proper motivation to inflate. With a quick flick of the wrist, he touched the spark to the miniature blimp, igniting the accelerant that had been soaked into the fabric. There was a burst of intense white light as the balloon was instantly consumed in flame, Asmodeus wreathed in a halo as he plummeted to the earth below. He landed hard in a crouch, an addition to the stage giving imperceptibly under the sudden weight. The bellows he had set up came into play, forcing oil into the troughs around the stage, sending the conflagration towering above the crowds.

As the flames receded, Asmodeus allowed himself a satisfied grin, and reached for two steel spheres on either side of him. He rose, tossing both orbs into the air and catching them, the magnets lining his gloves sending them whirling in place inches above his hands. Thus he stood, the central stage gear rising, rotating. Asmodeus crossed his arms, deftly activating the torches again, the spheres catching fire above his palms. He began to swing his arms in a tight, controlled manner, his hands weaving dizzying patterns through the air, the magnets from both hands keeping the balls of flame static in their whirlwind course. In the darkness the eye could perceive afterimages where the orbs had been, assuming familiar shapes out of seemingly random lines. Asmodeus’ hands increased their pace, until suddenly the rosette that was the Vapeur’s icon burst forth from the gloom, showering sparks that bounced and scattered from the elevated stage.

Asmodeus clenched the orbs firmly, smothering the flames, and dropping them to the stage. What followed was a menagerie of clockwork-inspired spectacles that drew forth gasps and applause from the assembled masses. Before long, however, Asmodeus reached the end of his routine. He opened the gas feed of his torches to full. Arms at his side, a jet of flame erupted from both of Asmodeus’ wrists, angling down from his body and steadily rising as he raised his arms like phoenix wings. Asmodeus then swung his arms down in front of him, hurling the twin gouts of living orange into the stage before him, creating a brilliant aurora just as their fuel source exhausted, and the music stopped. All was left dark and quiet within the circus tent.
Asmodeus emerged back stage, a wide grin of self-satisfaction plastered to his face, sweat beading on his brow from the intense heat of his performance. Alexandra stood nearby appearing, for all intents and purposes, to be thoroughly examining her cards. She had been watching the show the whole time, spellbound by the cunning tricks and gadgetry Asmodeus employed, riveted by that strong, imposing figure standing solitary upon the stage. She would, of course, never admit it. To further enhance this illusion of ennui, Alexandra looked up nonchalantly from her cards, and asked coldly, “So, how many ladies offered themselves to you after…” Her barbed remark was cut short by a startled cry, and Alexandra’s eyes grew wide. “You’re on fire!”

Asmodeus’ grin grew even broader, teeth beginning to show from between his upturned lips. “I know; it was incredible. Fire is a lot of fun! I should really incorporate more flammables into my routine.”

“Lord, man! In earnest, YOU ARE ON FIRE!” Alexandra pronounced the words with as much emphasis as a hammer on a window, making certain to drive through Asmodeus’ thick ego. His brows knit together in a worried expression, and his eyes slowly followed Alexandra’s outstretched finger to his sleeve. A gas line had blown, and a thin trail of orange and blue was happily licking its way up his arm.

Stalwart was the word Colette had used.

Brave. Fearless. Asmodeus controlled the fire.

He began frantically flapping his arm, prancing around in circles, all the while howling and shouting “Put it out! Put it out!!” Alexandra gave chase, armed with a blanket, face twisted in a scowl at the thought of being late for the intermission business rush.

****

Inside the main tent, the lanterns had been relit, and a stagehand ran in front of the audience, from section to section, shouting “10 minute intermission!” Dozens of conversations had broken out at once, some discussing however she left the house wearing that, or how your ailing mother was holding up, but the majority of attendees were recounting their favorite moments from the varied acts. A throng of people left the tent for the fresher, certainly cooler air of the circus field, attending the many sideshows and stalls.

Within and behind the main tent, stagehands and performers bustled here and there, laying out set pieces for the next act, gathering essential props, and generally looking frantic. Alexandra, having extinguished the flames of Asmodeus’ arm, but not of her own heart, hurried off to her tent to tell fortunes to the inevitable line of wives asking after husband’s fidelity and businessmen inquiring about financial investments. Colette leaned back against a support beam of the team, stealthily drawing a flask from some unknown pocket and taking a long, deep swig. Asmodeus, his sleeve charred but flesh intact, meandered off to assist Marie and the other acrobats in their final preparations for their impending performance. In both the circus crew and the night’s guests was a sense of unbridled anticipation for the second half of the show.