THE MIDNIGHT FAIR
By John Atkinson
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2010 John Atkinson
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The Midnight Fair
Rebecca huddled closer to the wall. The rain was coming down hard now and the night was freezing. The slight bulging of the old buildings near the eaves provided some shelter from the downpour, but did nothing against the icy wind that filled the alley with its shriek and tore at the thin blanket wrapped around her. She pulled the edges of the blanket closer to herself and fumbled in her pocket for the picture she always carried with her. Folded and torn, dog-eared and stained, her mother smiled up at her. Taken two years before her death it was the only keep-sake Rebecca had, the only thing she had not bartered for food or shelter.
Despite the wind and the rain, the picture filled the young girl with warmth and she began to feel the arms of sleep gently embracing her. As her eyes closed and the world dimmed, she was faintly aware of footsteps walking past but, for once, did not look up to beg change.
She awoke to noise and light. All around her were colours and shapes and she suddenly realised it was warm, warmer than she had been in days. She stood, gazing wide eyed at the lavishly dressed figures around her. To her right a couple stood dancing as a tall man enthusiastically played an accordion. All three of them were dressed in brightly coloured silk and lace with capes and scarves that twisted and whirled as they spun to the music. She noticed that the musician was wearing a mask, black with a long nose. It was encrusted with jewels and gold, intricately placed as if to draw attention to the deep black holes where the man’s eyes should have shown through.
She turned away from the cavorting trio to see the true wonder of the scene before her. The tiny, damp alley had been transformed into a world of colour and delight. Orange, blue and pink striped tents lined the walls, stretching up almost to the eaves of the buildings, providing shelter from the rain and also a canopy to keep in the heat from the throng of bodies that danced and pushed and jostled beneath the flags and pennants that hung from the tents. Coloured lights of all the shades of the spectrum hung from poles or stood twisted around columns. Rebecca made her way through the crowd, noting the odd clothing and the odder masks that adorned each figure she passed. Some were in the style of birds or animals, others were monsters and demons captured in ruby and emerald. She walked past them all, until she saw the dragon.
A tall woman surrounded by hooded figures danced and leapt in the centre of the alleyway. She was impossibly tall, towering head and shoulders over the men and women that watched her. Her bare feet seemed to flash in the blue and red electric light that bathed her. She wore a robe that shimmered and shone, the hood worked gold and rubies to resemble a dragon’s head. Rebecca walked towards the dancer, conscious that couples and groups were moving out of her way, gesturing at her, to each other, and pointing at her eyes. One woman started to reach, to try and caress Rebecca’s face, but she snatched her hand back before it touched flesh with a hiss of pain. The crowd moved further back from her then.
This close Rebecca could see that it was no robe that covered the woman. The emeralds, gold and rubies that made the scales of the dragon were part of her skin, the hood part of her head and the glowing diamond eyes of the dragon saw what the dark, eyeless pits in her face did not. The tall woman slowed and stopped her dance as Rebecca approached her. The cowled and hooded figures moved back to allow Rebecca to approach.
The dragon stared at her and Rebecca stared back, unable to tear her gaze from the dark holes in the beautiful woman’s face. And she was beautiful. Her high cheekbones and soft full lips seemed almost garish in the harsh electric blue light, but those dark pits captured the imagination and Rebecca allowed herself to be drawn by the woman, silently, into the squat black tent that belonged to the dragon.
The interior was dark and smoky. A single candle sent flickering shadows up and down the black canvas and infused the air with an unpleasant sulphurous aroma. The dragon pointed to the single stool. Rebecca sat and the tall woman stood over her for a moment before folding her legs and sitting on the floor.
Rebecca stared to speak, but the dragon shook her head. The young girl felt colder then and pulled her blanket around herself once more. She noticed that the rubies and emeralds that made up the dragon’s scales were glowing brighter than they had been before. Transfixed she began to lean forwards, watching the glittering jewels reflect the candle’s light up and down the walls of the tent.
And then the candle went out.
The crowds outside shied away from the screams, some rubbing at their empty eye-sockets. The musicians began again to play, and the figures to dance, trying to drown out the noise. Trying to forget.
The screams died away and a figure emerged from the tent. Clad all in tattered grey and black the figure moved, haltingly and hesitantly towards the crowds. The mask that clung to its face was sparsely decorated, with only a line of silver to accentuate the eye-holes; holes which were now as black as the squat tent from which the figure had emerged.
The crowd dispersed; tents and lights fading in the early morning glow; the ragged, blind figure having little choice but to follow the others.
And in the next town, on the next night, when the dragon emerged from her black tent, her diamond eyes seemed to glow a little brighter.
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About the author:
John Atkinson is an avid reader of both horror and fantasy. The only thing he enjoys more than staying up late to read a story is staying up late to write one. Influenced mainly by the works of Stephen King and H. P. Lovecraft he seeks to create an atmosphere of dread and intrigue in his stories. Rather new to the trade he hopes to establish himself in the business and hope you enjoy his stories! Work has appeared in anthologies such as ‘Night of the Wolf’ and ‘Rebel Moon’.
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