Context and trust go hand in hand. If I tell you some stout men walked out of a bar, you'll understand that they're probably drunk. If I tell you they then walked into your house, you will be concerned, and then stop reading, or at least stop believing the things I say. And, understandably, you will be disillusioned with my tricks when I begin a story with an unexplained pronoun. But the fact of the matter is: the spaces between my words will not be a silence you abide. People have a tendency to fill in the gaps.
She held out one hand, her left, cupped firmly, fingers together, bound and tense. A tiny, prickly-cold ball of teal sparks bounced up and down, remarkably slowly, lying about gravity. She could feel each orphaned spark dissipate coolly on her skin. With her right, she squished the man's fingers together, then curled her hand around his, forcing it into the tight shape of her left. Curious townsfolk pointed excitedly at the hopping magic in her hand as they passed, walking from booth to booth.
It had been six years since Maria had felt so anxious, and even back then it was only half. She knew it would come today, in great waves. Rhythms of merry-making divided by chasms of trepidation, legato, slow-moving and dreadful. Her spine hurt, as though she had spent the previous day lifting boxes of reagents for her show at the end of the Midsummer Festival. Well, she had, but she knew how to lift; she was a responsible person, and knew proper form. Rather, her muscles were tight with nerves. She worried she might remember. With today's celebration all around her, the past was so near.
"Make sure you hold tense, all the way up through your wrist. If you give this unruly stuff any chance to hurt you, it will." She demonstrated, moving her left hand around rigid, and the spark-ball followed. She had a stern look on her face. "But it's fun as long as you're safe. Are you ready?"
He nodded. He must've been thirty, but he had clearly never gotten a chance to be a part of the magic before. His awestruck silence gave her a smirk.
She moved her left hand over his tensed right hand, then quickly snatched it back to her side, leaving the spark-ball floating above his slightly quavering fingers like a tablecloth trick. It bounced there, in his hand, just as it had for her. His face was concentrated deeply, brows clambering to touch but blocked by a pudgy wrinkle between. And yet his sense of wonder was somehow still clear, visible in the corners of his eyes, so Maria allowed herself a full-blown smile.
It was context that left that moment bittersweet for Maria. She would get it right this time.
She pulled at the head of her paper belt, a machination that often caught the eye of village children. The belt lapped her just above her hips several times, terminating in an odd box, something between a belt buckle and a mouse trap. As she pulled at the lapped belt, the latch cranked back, and then snapped down, tearing off a piece with a small wooden bead upon it. It was like a reel of button candies turned witch's tool.
Maria concentrated, rubbed her thumb across the wood, and it gave way to another playful sphere of light. She repeated her process, handing out a few more of these to those passersby she could convince herself she had taught to be safe.
One child had found it funny to spread her hand open suddenly just before Maria could give her the spark-ball. Maria glared the sphere into shattering spectacularly, sending sparks everywhere and seeming very dangerous. Of course, she would never have hurt the child, but when the girl ran off to her mother, Maria felt the smugness of the worst sort of teacher.
The horizon had just been kissed by the setting sun when she realized the time. She tried her best to steel herself and walked towards the weathered stage.
As she walked up the stairs and onto the stage, she looked out at the crowd. There was a sense of rurality that she hoped would be welcoming. The hearts of hard work preferred consistency to splendor, and she knew it. But she had worked so hard for this moment.
Behind her, the stage set was covered in trinkets. Ivy and moss draped over the drapery. A few stagehands rustled around behind the brown, musty curtains, occasionally sliding an open tome out into view, or rolling a small cart covered in lit candles out. None of these props were necessary, per se, but she knew her fellow performers had a penchant for the dramatic, so she wanted to impress them when they arrived. If they arrived.
Her back tightened and she could feel all the iron in her chest and arms. She could see shadows, fickle for sight, wisping at the outskirts of the celebration, teeming up from the earth and out from the forest on the outskirts of town. Please, help me, she whispered in her mind, knowing it was just for her own keeping calm. The motion behind the curtain grew quiet, and she knew things were ready. She swallowed.
"Good evening and good eats, my good folk! And what a festival it has been! For all of the wonderful people who were out in booths today, selling delectable treats and delightful trinkets they made themselves, can I get a round of applause?" She paused, and the crowd obeyed. Everyone likes to pat themselves on the back.
"Excellent, excellent," Maria said, nodding, her practiced smile radiant. "You know, before we start I just want to say: it's truly been a pleasure to share experiences with you all these last six years. I know I'm not always out and about at parties and the like, but your hospitality has been a beacon of light for me through a tough time. I want you all to know that. So, another round of applause, for being so amazing!"
She smiled and looked down at her feet for a moment, and as she did, she allowed herself to grit her teeth. She was suddenly chillingly aware of the danger she had gathered for her fellow citizens. This can't go wrong, she repeated in her mind, as she had been for weeks leading up to this day, to this show. She was sweating. She had to trust in her thoroughly proofread calculations, and the goodwill she had accrued with the fae near town in the last few years. Everything had been set up perfectly. It had to be.
And so she was smiling out at the crowd again when she flipped a switch on the dispenser head on her belt. "Now! Allow me to deliver to you all the display of a lifetime! Tonight, feast your eyes, ears, and hearts on the Parade of the Star Witch!" She grabbed the end of her belt and slung her hand out, casting the reel of paper out over the audience, and she left her hand there, gently grazing her thumb over each button as it passed.
She had cleared the first objective perfectly, but she didn't relax.
No fewer than twenty huge spark-***** shot wildly up into the air off the paper, directly overhead of many villagers, leaving wide, bright tails of blues and purples as they went. They hovered in place at the top of their range, blasting out light in unpredictable rhythm. It was loud. Children caught and argued over the used launch paper as it fell.
Maria stepped back with one foot and snapped. The candles on the table behind her roared into irresponsibly and unbelievably tall flames, instantly shifting from orange to varying cool colors. The scents of lavender and anise washed over the performance. The entire standing space of the stage lit up a deep green with the intricate details of a spell circle. She manually triggered the latch on her dispenser head, severing the paper, and snatched one last button into her hand. It was time for the second stage.
She turned and spun gracefully into the center of the circle, her dark sundress taking the light of the stage and the still-hovering spectacle above moodily. She put her hands together, and the wind began to swirl fiercely, and as it grew shadows eked out into the fading sunset, upright and physical, on either side of her. They lashed around rapidly, plentiful and playful, but seemed unguided by the sudden gusts.
She felt a sudden, sharp pain behind her eyes. One of her traps must have triggered backstage. Whoever it was had come too careless, and too late. No one could stop this now, not this time. It was finally going to happen right.
She raised her left hand up into the twilight sky, that last single button rising into the sky to be the biggest sparkler yet, in the shape of a massive star. Everyone would remember who brought them the joy of this night for years.
The shadows suddenly grew rigid, and then hands reached out of each, and the parade began in earnest.
Fae poured out of each shadow-portal in a march, walked off the stage, and continued out, stepping up into the air over the stunned crowd. They wove their own path through the air, finding a beat that affronted in theory but pleased in practice. They were of inconsistent shape and size, not just between individuals, but between moments. It was difficult to pin your eyes on any feature they had, but it was harder still to find them anything but dazzlingly beautiful. If the denizens of the town were impressed by the lightshow, they were rapt now.
Some of the fae reached down and pulled an audience member up to them, dragging them into the march. Those left on the ground blossomed with envy.
Now, at last, Maria relaxed. The props had been enough. Her work had been enough. Her "fellow performers" had accepted her offerings, and tonight the town would fall away from the cruelties of reason and time, and into something delightful, eternal, and fun.
There was -- to describe it as a sudden turn gives the suggestion that this eventuality was not certain. But it was abrupt, as more people were pulled up into the parade. Kissing spread like wildfire across the skywalking troupe. Some townspeople seemed uncomfortable. Some followed suit. But no one ran.
The town had left the world. The people would be swallowed up by the fae, or become them, or both, and the night would soak in revelry ad infinitum.
It was context and trust that always misguided the prey of the Town-Eater Witch.
A crackle before her, a gemstone green and deep, borne of Oberon. She collected her payment with a hand still shaky with adrenaline, and then she was the wind, and then she was gone. But the sparks remained.
