PAPILLON

PAPILLON
by Antonia Rachel Ward

You step through the gates of the fairground, your cheeks aglow with warmth from the torches that line your way. Lowther’s Circus and Amusements, proclaims the sign that arches above your head, in elaborate, foot-tall letters. Through the day, you watched from the window of your parlour as stalls and rides sprung up across the park like mushrooms in a fairy ring, and now the night sky blazes with their light. The scents of exotic spices waft through the air.

You have lived across from the park since you were born, but you’ve never seen it like this before. People are everywhere; representatives of all ages and stations of life. All corners of the globe, too. Some of the faces you see are familiar, others are so unlike those you’re accustomed to, in your world of tea parties and fine dinners, as to be almost startling.

A toothless beggar grins at you as a group of children hurtle past, yelling with delight. Their trampling feet brush so close they almost tread on your skirts. Laughing, you take a step back and turn to your brother, slipping your arm through his.

“What would you like to do first, Clara?” Henry asks. “Some candy floss, perhaps? Or, I see a fire-eater over there.”

You follow the line of his outstretched arm to see a man juggling half-a-dozen flaming torches, spinning them so fast the light leaves trails in the air. Behind him, a carousel turns to the sound of a merry pipe-organ, brightly-painted horses bobbing up and down with children on their backs. Further in the distance a Ferris wheel towers above the red and gold canopy of the circus tent.

“Let’s take a ride on the Ferris wheel,” you begin, then stop when another attraction catches your attention. Papillon, the sign reads, in green and gold lettering, next to a drawing of a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with butterfly wings spreading out from behind her back. “No, wait. I want to see her.”

“The freak? It’s all fakery, you know.” Henry is a man of the world. He has been to Europe, while you sat in the schoolroom of your parents’ house, learning to play the piano and recite poetry in French. He knows these things. And yet—you want to see Papillon. You can’t account for it, but the urge drives you on, and you drag your brother across the grass to the tiny stage where a small crowd has gathered, waiting to see her appear.

A dwarf dressed in a top hat and gold waistcoat hoists himself up onto the stage and walks to the front where the gaslights blaze. Their glow hits him from below so that his face looks distorted, shrouded in strange shadows. Behind him hangs a heavy canvas curtain.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he booms, in a voice far too big for his small frame. He puts his hands in his pockets and shuffles his feet, waiting for the audience to settle down. “Ladies and gentlemen, please lend me your attention for but a few moments. I promise you will not regret it. I would like to tell you a story. A story of adventure, of mystery, of an exotic continent where anything is possible—even magic.”

As he speaks, he lowers his voice to little more than a whisper, until the audience, now silent, are straining to hear. You shudder—with fear or excitement, you’re not sure—but when you glance at Henry you see his expression is amused, as though this is all a mere joke.

“You may not have heard of Gowaladan,” continues the little man. “And that is because, my friends, this remarkable place can be found in no atlas. For centuries, many people thought it was a myth, like Atlantis. But, it is not so! Gowaladan does exist. Only one Englishman has ever found the route and been able to travel there: my master, the owner of this fairground—Mr Jonathan Lowther.”

Here, the dwarf pauses and the audience, realising a response is required, erupt into whoops and cheers.

“Mr Lowther found many treasures during his trip to Gowaladan,” the dwarf continues, pressing a palm to his chest. “Myself, for one. Not to mention many of the strange and unusual creatures you will see as you walk through the fair tonight. But the most beautiful, the most breathtaking, the most astounding of all the creatures he discovered on his travels, was the Lady Papillon.” He levels his gaze at the audience, smiling at the corner of his mouth as though letting them in on a priceless secret. “Half-woman, half-butterfly, her Ladyship is a kind of princess among her people, much revered—worshipped, even. And you shall soon see why.”

He sweeps his top hat from his head and approaches the front of the stage, proffering it, upside down, to the audience. “Just a ha’penny each, ladies and gentlemen. I assure you, you will not be disappointed.”

You look up at Henry, who raises his eyes to the heavens with a look of exasperation, then takes out his purse and hands you a penny.

“You are too easily taken in, Clara,” he admonishes. You ignore him and push your way through the crowd to the front, where you toss the penny into the dwarf’s hat. The audience closes behind you, trapping you within the mass of bodies, away from Henry, but you’re too fixated on the stage to care. You’ve never been further than your nearest city in your entire life. Never even been to London. The thought of seeing an exotic creature like the Lady Papillon makes your heart race. Half-woman, half-butterfly. Can it be true? You think of the butterflies your father keeps pinned beneath glass, in his study. Captives, frozen in time. They’ve always fascinated you.

The dwarf steps back from the edge of the stage, bowing and thanking everyone for their kind generosity. Silence settles over the audience once more. A breeze makes the gaslights flicker. The curtain ripples as though something is moving behind it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dwarf intones. “I give you … Lady Papillon!”

Smoke billows across the stage as the curtain parts, and out steps a shadowy figure. You squint to make her out, but you can see little at first—only the shape of a woman in a long gown. As the smoke begins to clear, you start to make out the coronet of flowers on her head. Her green dress is embroidered with them, too, in a rainbow of colours—reds, greens, golds and purples. Her skin is so dark as to be almost black, her long hair woven with gold thread.

The audience murmurs. Lady Papillon is exotic, yes, but for all appearances she is only human. Where is the butterfly princess you came to see?

Then, from behind her back, she extends a pair of enormous wings—taller than she is, and reaching an arm’s length at either side. In the dim, smoke-filled light, their dazzling colours seem to swirl around each other in mesmerizing patterns. There are gasps from the audience, then cheers. Henry was wrong. How can this possibly be fakery? She’s real.

Real, but not what you expected. She is beautiful, yes. Breathtaking, just as the dwarf said. But there is also something intimidating about her. Almost frightening. Her dark eyes sweep the audience, smouldering like coals. As the bodies of the eager crowd press around you, you wish you had not lost sight of your brother.

With a dramatic gesture, Lady Papillon turns around, displaying her wings like a peacock displaying his tail. The excitement of the crowd reaches fever pitch. One man takes it upon himself to try to climb onto the stage, and as he reaches for the hem of her dress, his elbow knocks one of the gaslights. It wobbles, then topples, glass smashing. Fire quickly takes hold of the wooden stage, flames flaring, growing, licking at the air like forked tongues. The sudden heat hits your cheeks. Before anyone has a chance to react, the fire reaches the hem of Lady Papillon’s dress. She lets out an otherworldly howl, thrashing and stumbling as it races up her body, engulfing her in a pillar of light.

Panic grips the crowd. The air is split by screams. People push and jostle you this way and that, buffeting you like a leaf in the breeze in their haste to get away. Your feet leave the ground as you are lifted up in the stampede, and then you tumble, face first, into the trampled ground. Feet pound around you, knocking you off-balance every time you try to pull yourself up. Your fingers are caught beneath somebody’s heavy boot and you scream in agony as your bones crack.

“Henry!” you cry. “Henry!”

But between the legs and the skirts and the smoke you can see nothing. Your brother is nowhere to be found. Frantic, you dig the fingers of your good hand into the slick mud and try to pull yourself along in what you hope is the direction away from the fire. You can feel its heat on your back.

Eventually you find some breathing space away from the press of bodies, and look up to find you’re close to the entrance of a tent. You scramble to your feet, but the stampede is close behind you, and the only way to escape being knocked down again is to stumble inside, into the cool darkness.

The place smells of cinders and damp grass. The screams and the crackling of the fire are dulled only slightly by the tarpaulin that now divides you from the chaos. You push onwards, deeper into the tent. A wild-looking girl approaches you, hatless, her hair tumbling from its bun, and only then do you realise you’ve entered the Hall of Mirrors.

You turn around, only to meet yourself again, and again, and again. Disoriented, you stagger in the only direction you can find, deeper into the maze. The air around you is stiflingly hot, and you know the fire must have taken hold of the tent. Red ashes drift past your vision. There’s no way out. It’s hopeless.

Then you hear a noise behind you. A shuffling, a rustling, a dragging of feet. You freeze, afraid to look up, knowing that you will see whatever it is in the mirror, but you can feel its presence—whatever it is—as a tingle on the back of your neck. You can hear its ragged breath. You slowly lift your eyes and for an instant you see yourself in the mirror, your face slack-mouthed and white with terror. Behind you looms a dark shape, half-hidden by smoke.

And you turn around.

She bears down on you. Papillon. Fire has taken her wings, burned them to a skeletal frame. Her dress is gone completely, her naked body raw with furious red burns. And her face—oh Lord, her face. Her skin is peeling, hanging loose, exposing bone and sinew. One of her eyes is half-melted, while the other fixes on you, her stare as relentless as her approach. Lifting her burned, blackened arms, she falls on you, pushing you back to the ground, clawing at your face as you struggle and scream. Her howls fill your ears.

The tent is burning around you. The mirrors are fogged with black smoke, and all you can hear is Papillon, screaming and screaming and screaming. You look into her eyes—the last thing you will ever see. You, the girl who never left her home town, look into the eyes of one who has travelled across oceans. And you see horrors. Whips, and chains, and mutilations. A family killed, a child wrenched from her homeland. All to stand on a stage dressed in gaudy wings. All to burn here—die here—for your entertainment, a million miles from home. All this, you see. And then the fire consumes you, and there is nothing left but ashes.

Above Lowther’s Circus and Amusements, the flames rise high into the sky, and somewhere high above them a butterfly flits away, finally free.