Ghosts
© Rebecca Engelmann

…The sound of the audience thrums through her small body, filling her with elation. Whistles, shouts and cheers from the engrossed crowd make the child clap her hands excitedly, delight etched into every facet of her innocent being.

“She has them tonight, lassie!” her father says loudly in her ear, bent close so that she can hear him over the enthusiasm building from the other side of the heavy curtains. It is out there, where her mother dances, wooing the audience with her performance, her rendition of a peasant girl turned princess an old theme, but Roslynn Kaitarass sparkles and tells the tale as no one has seen it before.

As the noise without settles and the music continues it’s lilting song, Illaria turns to her father, arms upraised. He smiles down at her and lifts her up hugging her tightly and placing a gentle kiss atop her head. “One day you shall dance like that! An angel among the living, lassie.” He grinned carrying her to the edge of the curtains where they gaped, hidden from view to the spectators, the illusion created by a second curtain. Here was where the performers and prop designers waited for their cues.

Arak adjusted his daughter in his arms and swung her high, resting her on his wide shoulders and taking her hands in his so that she might see over the heads of those awaiting their turn onstage.

Lights dimmed and a single glow of blue illuminated the woman beyond. The representation of the moon’s luminescence was unmistakable. Roslynn bent low, turned slowly and weaved like reeds in a summer’s breeze. Her willowy form glided gracefully, her footsteps smooth and in chorus with the flute’s eery melody.

Enraptured, the child watched her mother, pride swelled her thin chest and captivated her. Far more lovely than any rose, Roslynn simply glowed as she gave the best performance of her career.

At 8 summers old, Illaria had known no other life than that of the traveling troupe from Rin Caad. Her mother was one of the stars of the company’s actors and dancers and her father was a set and stage designer. Her parents were her only friends, her whole life and so she spent all of her waking hours learning and working alongside them. Already, she had appeared in small bit parts onstage, but most of her time was spent behind the scenes with her father.

Loved, adored and cherished the young girl could want for nothing… Nothing that is, save for companionship within her peer group. Always on the outside looking in. That was her. When the other children of the ‘Dancing Mist’ troupe played games, she watched on in envy. When the girls brought out their dolls in the newly made dresses bought from the markets of the latest stopping point, she hid behind the props and watched. When the boys told scary ghost stories, she cowered with her back against a tree and hugged her knees to her chest, delighted by the tales but unable to tell her own.

Born with eyes the color of molten silver, they reflected light and the images before her, but held nothing deeper. Emotions could not be viewed upon their peculiar surface and rumors began their whispered trail throughout the company. It was soon believed that the child was harboring the soul of a trapped one. A spirit who had been unable to make the journey to the Light. It was believed that the child could speak with the dead and commune with the spirits of the unresting. Fear and suspicion of the eery-eyed child only grew over the years as the supersticious troupe watched the child grow. She was an outcast as much as her mother was not.

Though not openly hostile, Illaria could not help but be frightened of the people who stayed clear of her. It was for the will of Roslynn alone that allowed the child to be present during shows, but any mishaps were blamed on the ‘ghost-child’.

Most of the older members simply ignored her, some even giving her the occasional smile of sympathy. One eldely woman even made her cookies when she had come down with fever when she was 5, but the old woman had passed away that same winter.

For the most part Illaria coped well, throwing herself into the love and work of her parents. She could sometimes even forget that no one else liked her. But somedays were harder to bear than others.

Earlier that day, Illaria had been playing in the grass with a few carved horse figurines. A present for her seventh birthday. A couple of the troop’s older boys had happened upon her and begun to taunt her. At first she stubbornly ignored them, but her inattention to their teasing turned them ever more aggressive. One of the boys had yanked her to her feet by a handful of her unruly curls while another gave her a shove back to the ground as the third then maliciously stomped on her tiny toys.

Through tears of anger, the child spat curses upon them using their own fear of her against them. Abandoning their fun, the boys ran off to leave Illaria cradling her beloved gifts to her chest where she cried over their destruction until her belly hurt. When her tears had subsided, she buried the broken pieces and went back to her parents’ room to inform them that they had been lost.

Looking out over the entranced faces of the crowd, Illaria wondered if their was a kindly woman to bake her cookies when she was sick or if there was a little girl among them whose toys had been broken for no other reason than because she looked different. She KNEW she was not this monster they believed her to be!

The change in tune of the music as it reached it’s crescendo brought her attention back to the stage and her father lifted her from her perch to gently set her back on her own feet. Taking her hand, he led her backstage again.

Moments later, the crowd’s wild acceptance heralded the arrival of her mother. Fairly gliding over to them, her skin shining with perspiration and joy. The woman was indeed stunning.

Arak released his daughter’s hand and went to his wife, scooping her up into his strong embrace, he swung her about making her laugh with delight. Illaria beamed as her father pressed his lips to her mother’s before setting her back down. Blowing her daughter a kiss, Roslynn squeezed her husband’s hand and grinned as he winked at her and then darted back out for the last set.

Unbeknownst to anyone, a careless stage hand bumped into a lit prop torch, a piece that was too be used in the last number. The flames flickered wildly and rained down into an old paint bucket where they then instantly ignited into a small fireball.

Within minutes, the flames spread licking at enameled stage props and scenes and bursting, sparks flying out onto stacks of papers, costumes and curtains. And then the wooden structure itself caught. By the time anyone noticed the smoke, the fire had begun to consume the support beams overhead, the roar of the blaze having gone unnoticed over the din of a fantastic show.

Chaos erupted once the structure began to collapse. Screams of terror replaced the shouts of pleasure and in the panic, the crew began to run for the exits pushing and shoving any in their path.

Illaria was knocked off of her feet, the thickness of the smoke seized her causing her to choke. Confused and frightened, the child searched for her father and spotted him knocking people aside in his haste to reach her. Lifting her arms out to him, she was struck by the terror lain naked upon his face, blazing within his eyes.

It was then that the beam fell.

“Daddy!!”

Illaria jerked awake, her heart slamming fast and furious against her ribcage, the scream still on her lips, yet ringing within her ears. A quick glance around her room brought her bearings back, the silent forms of her sleeping roommates assured her that she had not in fact uttered a word aloud. But in her head, she could still hear it…

Dropping her face into her palms she stifled a sob, not surprised to find her cheeks damp with tears. Her night shirt clung to her body and her curls were pressing wetly to her forehead and temples causing a shiver to shudder through her. Lifting her face and glancing down, she let her gaze settle to the blankets on the floor and relearned how to breathe.

Though her eyes were empty to look upon, her mind was alive with the still vivid dream. Haunted as she was, the irony did not escape her. Most of her life spent with others accusing her of being something otherworldly, and here she was- unable to escape the ghosts of her past.

With stunning clarity she recalled the fall of the beam as it crushed her unsuspecting father, unaware of anything but reaching his child. The wooden scaffolding had fallen next, it’s tail end slamming into her and sending her face first to the floor where she bumped her head and oblivion took her away.

Trailing a fingertip lightly along the faint scar at her hairline and releasing a shaky breath, the teenager slid her legs over the side of the bed and managed to stand. Moonlight shone through the open window and Illaria made her quiet way over, leaning against the frame and letting the cool night air wash over her.

Shivering, the Roug student closed her eyes and forced her thoughts instead to the unicorns. Her whole reason for being here. In some abstract way, she felt closer to her father’s prescence while pursuing her dream. As if he watched her with the Light’s chosen, blessing her with his encouragement. It felt right to be here. Not so much like chasing a dream but more like fulfilling it.

She had made friends at the Academy for the first time. People who saw her for the person she was, not for the person she had been branded as. None knew her dark secret. Perhaps no one ever would.

Opening her eyes again, Illaria looked down at the grounds below and knew that that was not entirely true- one day she would tell someone. She would confide her soul to the one she Bonded with. For she knew she would Bond. If she did not, then their was no point to living.

Turning away from the window, she padded back to her bed, scooped up her blankets and wrapped them about her shoulders. Her eyes locked onto those of her father’s. Arak’s laughing blue eyes looked back at her from the portrait in the silver frame atop her chest at the head of her bed.

She did not know how long she stood there, tears dripping off of her chin to slide down the collar of her nightshirt, but eventually she recalled herself and whispered faintly “I love you, Daddy.” And crawled back into bed where sleep evaded her for the rest of the evening.