Stones throe, p.5
Stone's Throe, page 5
Had I not been so thoroughly stung by that shaft, I might have taken note of the Nazis before they attacked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They came out of the shadows, clad all in black, save the brown shirts tucked beneath long coats and the stark red band around their upper left arms. Their silhouettes could not be mistaken, not even by the most casual observer, not in la Ville-Lumière, not in 1934. But as taken by Baker's performance as we all were, not one of us saw them until they were upon us.
Not us, but indeed, nearly upon the stage, their square-shouldered shapes descending upon the spectacle of Egypt's final hours of glory. Once again the audience came to their feet, a rumble of excitement and confusion rushing through. This could not be part of the performance—or it could be a daring commentary on the fascism rising to our east reflected in the fall of one of history's most opulent empires. On a Parisian stage, anything was possible, and in that thin space of possibility appeared hesitation for all but one.
Not for nothing had I chosen to sit in the boxes. Curtains and cords hung heavily around me and those I sat with, offering us privacy from outside view if we so wished. I had other desires, and in leaping to my feet also smoothly slipped a knife from the thigh-sheath beneath my cobalt gown. Beauty was one thing; going unarmed was another. With the razored blade, I struck free a cordoned rope and yanked to see how and where it attached above me. I was in luck: it wound upward and around the curtains of other boxes, and a few quick twitches loosened it from the grips above. I wrapped its dangling end solidly around my wrist and, in silence—for I never understood the impulse to run into battle screaming; it seemed wiser to me by far to surprise my enemy than warn him I was coming—I leapt over the box's balcony lip and swung toward the stage.
I discarded my shoes as I swung, sparing an apologetic thought for the patrons whom they hit before my wild flight came to an abrupt halt with my heels slammed into the kidneys of a Nazi soldier. He collapsed with a scream of pain and I, momentum lost and still seeming miles from Madame Baker, spun to find what materials I had on hand to make use of.
There were many: a Roman sword of heavy dull steel in the hands of a gaping extra, bludgeoning tools of every sort in the form of set pieces, and, if necessary, the extras and stagehands themselves—though it was my preference not to throw them into the fray. I released my box seat rope at once and seized the Roman sword, disappointed to discover it was painted wood, not metal at all. There was no time to prevaricate, though; the audience was beginning to understand that this was not bold commentary but a Nazi incursion, and panic would soon rear its ugly head.
Wooden sword set distastefully in my teeth, I caught a nearby rope—I had landed downstage left, beside the curtains—and slashed that rope's other half forcefully. It parted, and from off stage came the sounds of counterweights careening toward the floor. I flew upward in an instant and was jarred to a tooth-rattling stop—the sword bore the shape of my teeth as a scar for the rest of its brief existence—as the counterweights finished their plummet. I reached for the next looping rope, cut it, and soared toward the stage with such vigor that I took a moment's relief that my legs were well-shaped and the skirt's cut ensured I did not entirely dispose with my modesty. Madame Baker had no time at all in which to prepare for my arrival before I swept her from her feet. Together we shot up again in a glorious arc of blue and gold to land solidly upon the prow of the magnificent Egyptian scow that made up the set's triumphant back piece.
Under the audience's roaring approval, I set Madame Baker on her feet and removed the sword from my teeth to offer a swift smile. "Amelia Stone, at your service. Do remain here, madame, whilst I deal with these ruffians."
With that, I sheathed the knife and leapt from the ship's prow again, the curtain rope offering me the ability to skim well across the stage from la grande dame. As it should have, Nazi attention turned to me: I was a danger to their nefarious plot, whatever it might be. That it involved Madame Baker was clear; perhaps those who sought to build a master race also sought to learn how a colored woman could bring the elite of Paris to grovel at her feet. I shuddered to think what experiments might be performed upon her in order to release those imagined secrets. Another uniformed thug fell beneath the strength of my wooden sword, and a third from the power of my swinging kick. As he collapsed, I hit the stage and rolled, reluctant to loosen my grip on the curtain rope; it seemed that it might somehow save me, or at least offer a weapon beyond the dull blade in my hand.
Three Nazis converged on me, not yet fully realizing, perhaps, that I was no part of the evening's entertainment. They did not withdraw their weapons to threaten me, and I, thinking fondly of my Savate instructor, handily dispatched them with the sword.
The next three were wiser, and not men to rely on fists when guns would do. I dropped low, feinting with the blade at their ankles, but as one danced away the other two took aim, while others still began to close in on me with deadly intent written on their snarling features. My hand snaked toward the knife again at my thigh; if I were to die on this stage, I would not be the only one. But just before my fingers closed on the small blade, tension came into the rope wrapped about my wrist. I had only an instant to understand, and swiftly spun the rope around my hand, giving myself better purchase.
To the stunned and shouting audience, it must have looked choreographed: I burst upward from a ring of Nazis, one hand extended above me, the other wielding a shining sword as I kicked upward with violent force enhanced by the rapidity with which I rose. Three Nazis fell as one, and the cheer that went up from the audience was echoed by the stagehand whose quick wits had sent me soaring.
Nor did he abandon me: I rose and fell, dancing about the stage with the practiced skill of an acrobat. My skirt flashed and glittered blue, an always moving target as I did battle with evil men. Gunshots were fired; Madame Baker screamed, and that vibrant, reverberating voice silenced the entire theatre for a shocking span of heartbeats.
But in screaming, she brought herself back to Nazi attention. They had, in their pursuit of me, forgotten their objective. Now it was foremost in their minds, and a man with commander's bars on his shoulder barked orders that he never dreamed I could understand. But I had grown up with three cradle tongues and had learned many languages with ease as I had traveled the world: Forget the flying woman, he demanded. Get to Baker!
The race was on, a convergence of black-uniformed hooligans against myself, all of us scrambling the set to reach Madame Baker first. I had the advantage: the moment my unseen stagehand supporter realized my desired destination, he flew me upward and my running momentum carried me angel-like toward la grande dame. My left arm ached from the endless hoisting, but I dared not complain, nor even think of it: a helpless woman was in danger, and I would not let her fall beneath the Nazi scourge.
Baker, whose pride was in this instance perhaps greater than her wisdom, stood above us all with a look of scorn that would have done well on the queen whose part she played. Had I been one of the jack-booted thugs, I might have hesitated, but they feared their master more than any woman's scathing disdain. They swarmed the scow, and it was only by good fortune that I arrived in time to knock the first of them away.
The commander, a giant of a man, seized one of his own and bodily hurled him at me. I met him with the broad side of the sword, staggered back, then threw him off. He fell with a shout, but the seconds dedicated to that act were enough for the commander to take the scow and reach me. I wasted no time watching his compatriot fall, and yet in the instant it took me to recover, the enemy landed his first real blow against me: a full punch to the face, mitigated only by my swift action in leaning back.
None the less, stars exploded in my mind as the bitter flavor of iron filled my throat. My backward lean became nearly a fall, but confident hands caught my spine and thrust me forward again: Madame Baker, assisting in her own rescue! What a woman she was! Though I could see almost nothing through pain-stunned tears, I lashed out, hoping my opponent had not yet moved to press his advantage. Remembering his size, I went for the ribs, swinging my wooden sword as if it might cleave him in twain.
As fate had it, it was the sword that broke in two, not the Nazi commander, though I heard a satisfying crack of ribs and his yowl of pain. I dashed tears from my eyes and swept blood away from my nose as I leapt, bearing him to the deck in a blur of elbows and knees. We writhed and struggled, his strength and size to his advantage, my litheness and size to mine, and neither of us gaining the upper hand.
The broken sword came to hand and I clobbered his temple with its hilt. He collapsed against the scow, and I, triumphant, raised my gaze to receive Madame Baker's accolades.
To my unending dismay, she was instead staring enraged after a few escaping Nazis, her lovely head divested of its magnificent crown.
CHAPTER NINE
"A moment, madame, and I shall retrieve your headdress for you—" Forgetting that I did not wear my usual leather jacket and fighting togs, I wiped my nose across my arm a second time and was dismayed to discover blood smeared along my forearm and dripping onto my cobalt gown. My drycleaners would require upfront payment, and at least half an hour of my time in which to lecture me. I sighed, but such was the cost of my chosen lifestyle. To Madame Baker, I smiled apologetically for my appearance, then wrapped the stage rope around my wrist a final time. With only a touch of fortune, I could catch the escaping thieves in a single swing.
A steel grip grasped my bloody arm. "Like hell," said the fabulous Madame Baker, in raw American English. "You're not leaving me behind, Madame Stone. First, you've just saved my bacon and I want you near me if any of these thugs wake up. Second, that's my hat!"
I stared at her, dazed with bemused admiration. I could argue; I could lay her out and make good my chase; I could bind the unconscious Nazis so they could not trouble her.
Or I could waste no time, and offer her a dashing smile. "As you wish, Madame Baker."
La grand dame's answering smile was ferocious, and I recalled that she was known to keep a cheetah called Chiquita; I thought she had learned that sharp smile from the wild animal, and also thought she would do well at my side in a fight and perhaps in gentler arts. I clenched the rope and made to pull her close, ready to swing, but a change of her weight made me hesitate.
Madame Baker took perhaps one half of a step forward, putting herself just ahead of me on the prow of the Egyptian ship, and took a long, deep, glorious bow to uproarious applause and appreciation from the scattered, standing audience. Her fingers dug into my forearm, pulling me into the bow as well. I joined her, though less gracefully and without the depth or duration. When she stood, it was to await further, forthcoming accolades, but under my breath I murmured, "Madame Baker, I must insist. Come with me or remain for your adoring audience, but the choice must be made now."
She released my arm so that she could wrap hers around my neck. I, in turn, tested my grip on the rope and snugged her against my side with my free arm. What a picture we made, she in gold, myself in blue, whooping wildly—hers inspiring mine—as we swung from the scow. The audience's roars of delight followed us in waves. We came to the backstage floor as one, laughing at the madness of it all as we clutched hands and fell into hot pursuit of our quarry.
Black-uniformed men swarmed ladders reaching for the catwalks high above. They were nearly impossible to see, until a clever stagehand—perhaps the same one who had helped me before—illuminated the backstage with harsh electric lights. I was grateful to be in Paris for this adventure; nowhere else had so many electric lights as to deserve the name la Ville-Lumière. I released Madame Baker's hand and dashed up a ladder, now able to move more quickly than my Nazi prey. I had gained on them by half when the first threw open a door leading to the rooftop and they slipped out into the night.
I was behind them in a moment, gasping at night air so cold and fresh on my bare arms that it seemed to buzz and hum. I had, I realized too late, been a fool: instead of seizing Madame Baker, I ought to have taken a gun from one of the fallen fascists. C'est la vie; I would simply have to defeat them with my wits and my fists, which had never yet failed me in battle. To that end, when Madame Baker flew through the door behind me, I caught the outrageous skirt of her gown, issued an apology, and tore its delicate fabric until her legs were exposed to above the knee and I had a shimmering length of material to twist into a rope.
The rooftop of le Palais Garnier was a vast, flat thing centered by a huge green glass dome lined with copper. The whole of the building was cornered by gold angels who bore instruments and lifted their arms to the sky in musical supplication; behind them both lay the rest of the building and its less dramatic rooftop. We had emerged near the dome; the fascists were already approaching the roof's edge, where they would no doubt slither down and away like the snakes they were. I bound a lasso into the rope as we ran after them, judging the height of an angel's wing for ensnaring. It could be done, though perhaps not by Madame Baker.
"What is that?" she demanded as we ran, and I realized the soft buzz I had felt upon exiting the warmth of the opera house was not simply cold, but indeed the air itself vibrating with the sound of engines. In front of us, our Nazi game flung themselves from the rooftop without care; I did not even see them catch hold of ropes to rappel safely to the ground. We were nearly upon the rooftop's precipice ourselves when finally we saw the answer to their reckless actions.
Slow, low-flying biplanes roared past la Palais Garnier. Painted as red as the infamous Baron's and decorated with the spiderlike swastika, they caught their falling comrades in flybys. Offended outrage rose in my chest. They had been very certain, these Nazis. Biplanes were old, used in the Great War and replaced now with faster, single-winged aircraft. But for tonight, for an incursion into France to steal a headdress from a singer, surely the Nazi commanders had concluded that their old planes would suit, and sent a bevy of them forth to drop off and collect their troops. Naturellement, they had not anticipated my presence, nor that any single person could foil them all. Ah, but they had never met a Spirit before; I knew from adventures past that those of us born to shape the century had gifts beyond the ordinary.
I was not ashamed to admit I put some of those gifts on fine display as I leapt from the rooftop with my golden lasso in hand. I knew an exhilarating handful of heartbeats wherein I had no mistress save the wind: I was free of all constraints, unable to feel even gravity's call. This was flight; this was the thing that humankind had longed for since time immemorial.
I landed on the curved upper wing of a biplane with grace and elegance: on one knee, the other foot and both hands planted firmly against freezing metal, with my skirt blowing around me like a cobalt storm. It was my dearest hope that Madame Baker saw that glorious and dramatic landing, for no sooner had I accomplished it than I was obliged to fling myself face down and cling to the wing like an insect afraid of being blown away. The plane banked sharply at my arrival, then spun upward into the sky, trying to shake me off. I was thrown back and forth, my grip loosening with every wobble, but I soon had the rhythm of it: when the pilot drove the wing opposite me toward the earth, the air itself pinned me in place before I was nearly flipped headlong upon the reversal of that tilt.
When, for the third time, the pilot drove the opposite wing downward, I let my golden rope unfurl. Roaring wind captured it and snapped it down and back, around the plane's upper wing. I lurched for the free flying end, seizing it in cold fingers just as the pilot realized what I was doing. He flung the plane to the opposite pitch, trying to dislodge me, but now I was effectively bound to the wing—so long as my grip held. Eyeing the city lights speeding below and the terrible distance there was to fall, I vowed that my grip would not fail me, and did my best to perform an unconcerned wink and smile at the pilot.
Rage contorted his features as inventive invective spewed forth. Only then did I truly notice that a second man sat in the plane's passenger seat, whence the guns could be operated. Indeed, he was struggling to bring them around to an angle from which he could fire at me, and I dreaded that he might carry and soon remember a sidearm. The pilot became secondary in my concerns, and as the plane pitched again I made no effort to hold on to anything but my rope. Its silken length zipped down the wing to catch violently on struts, the freedom of play it granted allowing me to meet the plane's passenger with the flexed heels of both feet. He was not secured and the force of our encounter wrenched him from the plane. Screaming, he made the very fall I was trying so conscientiously to avoid.
The pilot leveled the plane again, which threw me away from him, but the silken rope did its duty and held me to the wing. I scrambled up, buffeted by wind, and realized the pilot dared not tilt the aeroplane again for fear of depositing me atop him. I had no such concerns, and, cat-like, began to creep toward him. He turned a look of savagery on me and withdrew a pistol from the cockpit.
He could not hit me easily; I had the advantage of movement, though I wished that I had tied the rope to something rather than trust my own strength. I doubted I would be afforded the opportunity now. The first shot, fired in anger, flew wild, but the second was more carefully aimed. He sighted along the pistol and I, crouched on the wing, waited to determine which way to fly. But then surprise wiped rage from his face and I, more fool than I knew, followed his glance upward.
A crash heralded the arrival of another player in our performance, and a woman leaned over the wing's trailing edge to hit me in the face.
CHAPTER TEN
She missed. I was not to take a blow to the face twice in a week, much less twice in a single night, and my silken harness on the plane's wing allowed me to slide a fair distance from her striking hands without endangering myself. Then, because the plane was now level and the pilot no longer inclined to incline—indeed, he had slowed his speed with the woman's arrival—I swung myself to the top wing and crouched to meet my adversary.
